THE   DESERT  OF  WHEAT 


THE 

DESERT    OF  WHEAT 

A  NOVEL 

BY 

ZANE  GREY 

AUTHOR  OF 

THE  U.    P.  TRAIL,  WILDFIRE, 
THE  BORDER  LEGION,  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

W.    H.   D.   KOERNER 


NEW    YORK 

GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 


Copyright,  1919,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  January,  1919 

B-T 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

DAYLIGHT  HAD  JUST  CLEARED  AWAY  WHEN  A  CROWD      Frontispiece 
OF  MASKED  MEN  APPEARED  AS  IF  BY  MAGIC  AND 
BORE  DOWN  UPON  THE  GUARDS 

" HANDS  UP!"  HE  DISCHARGED  THE  REVOLVER  RIGHT 
IN  THE  FACES  OF  THE  STUNNED  PLOTTERS  AND, 
SNATCHING  UP  THE  MONEY,  WAS  GONE  .  .  .  Facing  p.  in 

No  WEAPON  WOULD  HAVE  SUFFICED.  HARDLY  AWARE 
OF  NASH'S  BLOWS,  KURT  TORE  AT  HIM,  SWUNG 
AND  CHOKED  HIM "  118 

"THEN  JUST  TO  ADD  ONE  MORE  TO  THE  CONQUESTS 
GIRLS  LOVE  I'LL — I'LL  PROPOSE  TO  You,"  HE 
DECLARED,  BANTERINGLY  .,.,,...  "  218 


THE    DESERT    OF    WHEAT 


CHAPTER  I 

E/TE  in  June  the  vast  northwestern  desert  of  wheat 
began  to  take  on  a  tinge  of  gold,  lending  an  austere 
beauty  to  that  endless,  rolling,  smooth  world  of  treeless 
hills,  where  miles  of  fallow  ground  and  miles  of  waving 
grain  sloped  up  to  the  far-separated  homes  of  the  heroic 
men  who  had  conquered  over  sage  and  sand. 

These  simple  homes  of  farmers  seemed  lost  on  an 
immensity  of  soft  gray  and  golden  billows  of  land,  in 
significant  dots  here  and  there  on  distant  hills,  so  far 
apart  that  nature  only  seemed  accountable  for  those 
broad  squares  of  alternate  gold  and  brown,  extending  on 
and  on  to  the  waving  horizon-line.  A  lonely,  hard,  heroic 
country,  where  flowers  and  fruit  were  not,  nor  birds  and 
brooks,  nor  green  pastures.  Whirling  strings  of  dust 
looped  up  over  fallow  ground,  the  short,  dry  wheat  lay 
back  from  the  wind,  the  haze  in  the  distance  was  drab 
and  smoky,  heavy  with  substance. 

A  thousand  hills  lay  bare  to  the  sky,  and  half  of  every 
hill  was  wheat  and  half  was  fallow  ground;  and  all  of 
them,  with  the  shallow  valleys  between,  seemed  big  and 
strange  and  isolated.  The  beauty  of  them  was  austere, 
as  if  the  hand  of  man  had  been  held  back  from  making 
green  his  home  site,  as  if  the  immensity  cf  the  task  had 
left  no  time  for  youth  and  freshness.  Years,  long  years, 
were  there  in  the  round-hilled,  many-furrowed  gray  old 
earth.  And  the  wheat  looked  a  century  old.  Here  and 
there  a  straight,  dusty  road  stretched  from  hill  to  hill, 
becoming  a  thin  white  line,  to  disappear  in  the  distance. 
The  sun  shone  hot,  the  wind  blew  hard;  and  over  the 

i 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

ss  tinda1  siting  expanse  hovered  a  shadow  that  was 
neither  hood  of  dust  nor  hue  of  gold.  It  was  not  physical, 
but  lonely,  waiting,  prophetic,  and  weird.  No  wild 
desert  of  wastelands,  once  the  home  of  other  races  of 
man,  and  now  gone  to  decay  and  death,  could  have 
shown  so  barren  an  acreage.  Half  of  this  wandering 
patchwork  of  squares  was  earth,  brown  and  gray,  curried 
and  disked,  and  rolled  and  combed  and  harrowed,  with 
not  a  tiny  leaf  of  green  in  all  the  miles.  The  other  half 
had  only  a  faint  golden  promise  of  mellow  harvest;  and 
at  long  distance  it  seemed  to  shimmer  and  retreat  under 
the  hot  sun.  A  singularly  beautiful  effect  of  harmony 
lay  in  the  long,  slowly  rising  slopes,  in  the  rounded  hills, 
in  the  endless  curving  lines  on  all  sides.  The  scene  was 
heroic  because  of  the  labor  of  horny  hands ;  it  was  sublime 
because  not  a  hundred  harvests,  nor  three  generations  of 
toiling  men,  could  ever  rob  nature  of  its  limitless  space 
and  scorching  sun  and  sweeping  dust,  of  its  resistless 
age-long  creep  back  toward  the  desert  that  it  had  been. 

Here  was  grown  the  most  bounteous,  the  richest  and 
finest  wheat  in  all  the  world.  Strange  and  unfathomable 
that  so  much  of  the  bread  of  man,  the  staff  of  life,  the 
hope  of  civilization  in  this  tragic  year  1917,  should  come 
from  a  vast,  treeless,  waterless,  dreary  desert! 

This  wonderful  place  was  an  immense  valley  of  con 
siderable  altitude  called  the  Columbia  Basin,  surrounded 
by  the  Cascade  Mountains  on  the  west,  the  Cceur  d'Alene 
and  Bitter  Root  Mountains  on  the  east,  the  Okanozan 
range  to  the  north,  and  the  Blue  Mountains  to  the  south. 
The  valley  floor  was  basalt,  from  the  lava  flow  of  vol 
canoes  in  ages  past.  The  rainfall  was  slight  except  in  the 
foot-hills  of  the  mountains.  The  Columbia  River,  making 
a  prodigious  and  meandering  curve,  bordered  on  three 
sides  what  was  known  as  the  Bend  country.  South  of 
this  vast  area,  across  the  range,  began  the  fertile,  many- 
watered  region  that  extended  on  down  into  verdant 

2 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Oregon.  Among  the  desert  hills  of  this  Bend  country, 
near  the  center  of  the  Basin,  where  the  best  wheat  was 
raised,  lay  widely  separated  little  towns,  the  names  of 
which  gave  evidence  of  the  mixed  population.  It  was, 
of  course,  an  exceedingly  prosperous  country,  a  fact  mani 
fest  in  the  substantial  little  towns,  if  not  in  the  crude  and 
unpretentious  homes  of  the  farmers.  The  acreage  of 
farms  ran  from  a  section,  six  hundred  and  forty  acres, 
up  into  the  thousands. 

Upon  a  morning  in  early  July,  exactly  three  months 
after  the  United  States  had  declared  war  upon  Germany, 
a  sturdy  young  farmer  strode  with  darkly  troubled  face 
from  the  presence  of  his  father.  At  the  end  of  a  stormy 
scene  he  had  promised  his  father  that  he  would  abandon 
his  desire  to  enlist  in  the  army. 

Kurt  Dorn  walked  away  from  the  gray  old  clapboard 
house,  out  to  the  fence,  where  he  leaned  on  the  gate. 
He  could  see  for  miles  in  every  direction,  and  to  the 
southward,  away  on  a  long  yellow  slope,  rose  a  stream 
of  dust  from  a  motor-car. 

"Must  be  Anderson — coming  to  dun  father,"  muttered 
young  Dorn. 

This  was  the  day,  he  remembered,  when  the  wealthy 
rancher  of  Ruxton  was  to  look  over  old  Chris  Dorri's 
wheat-fields.  Dorn  owed  thirty-thousand  dollars  and 
the  interest  for  years,  mostly  to  Anderson.  Kurt  hated 
the  debt  and  resented  the  visit,  but  he  could  not  help 
acknowledging  that  the  rancher  had  been  lenient  and  kind. 
Long  since  Kurt  had  sorrowfully  realized  that  his  father 
was  illiterate,  hard,  grasping,  and  growing  worse  with 
the  burden  of  years. 

"  If  we  had  rain  now — or  soon — that  section  of  Bluestem 
would  square  father,"  soliloquized  young  Dorn,  as  with 
keen  eyes  he  surveyed  a  vast  field  of  wheat,  short,  smooth, 
yellowing  in  the  sun.  But  the  cloudless  sky,  the  haze  of 
heat  rather  betokened  a  continued  drought. 

3 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

There  were  reasons,  indeed,  for  Dorn  to  wear  a  dark 
and  troubled  face  as  he  watched  the  motor-car  speed 
along  ahead  of  its  stream  of  dust,  pass  out  of  sight  under 
the  hill,  and  soon  reappear,  to  turn  off  the  main  road  and 
come  toward  the  house.  It  was  a  big,  closed  car,  covered 
with  dust.  The  driver  stopped  it  at  the  gate  and  got  out. 

"Is  this  Chris  Dorn's  farm?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Kurt. 

Whereupon  the  door  of  the  car  opened  and  out  stepped 
a  short,  broad  man  in  a  long  linen  coat. 

"Come  out,  Lenore,  an*  shake  off  the  dust,"  he  said, 
and  he  assisted  a  young  woman  to  step  out.  She  also 
wore  a  long  linen  coat,  and  a  veil  besides.  The  man  re 
moved  his  coat  and  threw  it  into  the  car.  Then  he  took 
off  his  sombrero  to  beat  the  dust  off  of  that. 

"Phew!  The  Golden  Valley  never  seen  dust  like  this 
in  a  million  years!  .  .  .  I'm  chokin'  for  water.  An* 
listen  to  the  car.  She's  boilin' !" 

Then,  as  he  stepped  toward  Kurt,  the  rancher  showed 
himself  to  be  a  well-preserved  man  of  perhaps  fifty-five, 
of  powerful  form  beginning  to  sag  in  the  broad  shoulders, 
his  face  bronzed  by  long  exposure  to  wind  and  sun.  He 
had  keen  gray  eyes,  and  their  look  was  that  of  a  man 
used  to  dealing  with  his  kind  and  well  disposed  toward 
them. 

"Hello!    Are  you  young  Dorn?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Kurt,  stepping  out. 

"I'm  Anderson,  from  Ruxton,  come  to  see  your  dad. 
This  is  my  girl  Lenore." 

Kurt  acknowledged  the  slight  bow  from  the  veiled 
young  woman,  and  then,  hesitating,  he  added,  "Won't 
you  come  in?" 

"No,  not  yet.  I'm  chokin'  for  air  an'  water.  Bring  us 
a  drink,"  replied  Anderson. 

Kurt  hurried  away  to  get  a  bucket  and  tin  cup.  As  he 
drew  water  from  the  well  he  was  thinking  rather  vaguely 
that  it  was  somehow  embarrassing — the  fact  of  Mr. 

4 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Anderson  being  accompanied  by  his  daughter.  Kurt  was 
afraid  of  his  father.  But  then,  what  did  it  matter? 
When  he  returned  to  the  yard  he  found  the  rancher  sitting 
in  the  shade  of  one  of  the  few  apple-trees,  and  the  young 
lady  was  standing  near,  in  the  act  of  removing  bonnet  and 
veil.  She  had  thrown  the  linen  coat  over  the  seat  of  an 
old  wagon-bed  that  lay  near. 

"  Good  water  is  scarce  here,  but  I'm  glad  we  have  some," 
said  Kurt;  then  as  he  set  down  the  bucket  and  offered  a 
brimming  cupful  to  the  girl  he  saw  her  face,  and  his  eyes 
met  hers.  He  dropped  the  cup  and  stared.  Then 
hurriedly,  with  flushing  face,  he  bent  over  to  recover  and 
refill  it. 

"Ex-excuse  me.  I'm — clumsy,"  he  managed  to  say, 
and  as  he  handed  the  cup  to  her  he  averted  his  gaze.  For 
more  than  a  year  the  memory  of  this  very  girl  had  haunted 
him.  He  had  seen  her  twice — the  first  time  at  the  close  of 
his  one  year  of  college  at  the  University  of  California,  and 
the  second  time  on  the  street  in  Spokane.  In  a  glance  he 
had  recognized  the  strong,  lithe  figure,  the  sunny  hair, 
the  rare  golden  tint  of  her  complexion,  the  blue  eyes, 
warm  and  direct.  And  he  had  sustained  a  shock  which 
momentarily  confused  him. 

"Good  water,  hey?"  dissented  Anderson,  after  drinking 
a  second  cup.  "Boy  that's  wet,  but  it  ain't  water  to  drink. 
Come  down  in  the  foot-hills  an'  I'll  show  you.  My 
ranch  's  called  'Many  Waters/  an*  you  can't  keep  your 
feet  dry." 

"I  wish  we  had  some  of  it  here,"  replied  Kurt,  wistfully, 
and  he  waved  a  hand  at  the  broad,  swelling  slopes.  The 
warm  breath  that  blew  in  from  the  wheatlands  felt  dry 
and  smelled  dry. 

"You're  in  for  a  dry  spell?"  inquired  Anderson,  with 
interest  that  was  keen,  and  kindly  as  well. 

"Father  says  so.  And  I  fear  it,  too — for  he  never 
makes  a  mistake  in  weather  or  crops." 

"  A  hot,  dry  spell ! . . .  This  summer? . . .  Hum ! . . .  Boy,  do 

5 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

you  know  that  wheat  is  the  most  important  thing  in  the 
world  to-day?" 

"You  mean  on  account  of  the  war,"  replied  Kurt. 
"Yes,  I  know.  But  father  doesn't  see  that.  All  he 
sees  is — if  we  have  rain  we'll  have  bumper  crops.  That 
big  field  there  would  be  a  record — at  war  prices.  .  .  .  And 
he  wouldn't  be  ruined!" 

"Ruined? .  .  .  Oh,  he  means  I'd  close  on  him.  .  .  .  Hum! 
.  .  .  Say,  what  do  you  see  in  a  big  wheat  yield — if  it 
rains?" 

"Mr.  Anderson,  I'd  like  to  see  our  debt  paid,  but  I'm 
thinking  most  of  wheat  for  starving  peoples.  I — I've 
studied  this  wheat  question.  It's  the  biggest  question  in 
this  war." 

Kurt  had  forgotten  the  girl  and  was  unaware  of  her 
eyes  bent  steadily  upon  him.  Anderson  had  roused  to 
the  interest  of  wheat,  and  to  a  deeper  study  of  the  young 
man. 

"Say,  Dorn,  how  old  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Twenty-four.  And  Kurt's  my  first  name,"  was  the 
reply. 

"Will  this  farm  fall  to  you?" 

"Yes,  if  my  father  does  not  lose  it." 

"Hum!  .  .  .  Old  Dorn  won't  lost  it,  never  fear.  He 
raises  the  best  wheat  in  this  section." 

' '  But  father  never  owned  the  land.  We  have  had  three 
bad  years.  If  the  wheat  fails  this  summer — we  lose  the 
land,  that's  all." 

"Are  you  an — American?"  queried  Anderson,  slowly, 
as  if  treading  on  dangerous  ground. 

"I  am,"  snapped  Kurt.  "My  mother  was  American. 
She's  dead.  Father  is  German.  He's  old.  He's  rabid 
since  the  President  declared  war.  He'll  never  change." 

"That's  hell.  What  're  you  goin'  to  do  if  your  country 
calls  you?" 

"Go!"  replied  Kurt,  with  flashing  eyes.  "I  wanted  to 
enlist.  Father  and  I  quarreled  over  that  until  I  had  to 

6 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

give  in.  He's  hard — he's  impossible.  .  .  .  I'll  wait  for 
the  draft  and  hope  I'm  called." 

"Boy,  it's  that  spirit  Germany's  roused,  an'  the  best  I 
can  say  is,  God  help  her!  .  .  .  Have  you  a  brother?" 

"No.     I'm  all  father  has." 

"Well,  it  makes  a  tough  place  for  him,  an*  you,  too. 
Humor  him.  He's  old.  An*  when  you're  called — go  an' 
fight.  You'll  come  back." 

"If  I  only  knew  that— it  wouldn't  be  so  hard." 

"Hard?  It  sure  is  hard.  But  it  '11  be  the  makin'  of  a 
great  country.  It  '11  weed  out  the  riffraff.  .  .  .  See 
here,  Kurt,  I'm  goin'  to  give  you  a  hunch.  Have  you  had 
any  dealin's  with  the  I.  W.  W.?" 

"Yes,  last  harvest  we  had  trouble,  but  nothing  serious. 
When  I  was  in  Spokane  last  month  I  heard  a  good  deal. 
Strangers  have  approached  us  here,  too — mostly  aliens. 
I  have  no  use  for  them,  but  they  always  get  father's  ear. 
And  now!  ...  To  tell  the  truth,  I'm  worried." 

"Boy,  you  need  to  be,"  replied  Anderson,  earnestly. 
"We're  all  worried.  I'm  goin'  to  let  you  read  over  the 
laws  of  that  I.  W.  W.  organization.  You're  to  keep  mum 
now,  mind  you.  I  belong  to  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  in 
Spokane.  Somebody  got  hold  of  these  by-laws  of  this 
so-called  labor  union.  We've  had  copies  made,  an' 
every  honest  farmer  in  the  Northwest  is  goin'  to  read  them. 
But  carryin'  one  around  is  dangerous,  I  reckon,  these 
days.  Here." 

Anderson  hesitated  a  moment,  peered  cautiously  around, 
and  then,  slipping  folded  sheets  of  paper  from  his  inside 
coat  pocket,  he  evidently  made  ready  to  hand  them  to 
Kurt. 

"Lenore,  where's  the  driver?"  he  asked. 

"He's  under  the  car,"  replied  the  girl. 

Kurt  thrilled  at  the  soft  sound  of  her  voice.  It  was 
something  to  have  been  haunted  by  a  girl's  face  for  a 
year  and  then  suddenly  hear  her  voice. 

"He's  new  to  me — that  driver — an'  I  ain't  trustin'  any 

7 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

new  men  these  days,"  went  on  Anderson.     "Here  now, 
Dorn.     Read  that.     An'  if  you  don't  get  red-headed — " 

Without  finishing  his  last  muttered  remark,  he  opened 
the  sheets  of  manuscript  and  spread  them  out  to  the  young 
man. 

Curiously,  and  with  a  little  rush  of  excitement,  Kurt 
began  to  read.  The  very  first  rule  of  the  I.  W.  W.  aimed 
to  abolish  capital.  Kurt  read  on  with  slowly  growing 
amaze,  consternation,  and  anger.  When  he  had  finished, 
his  look,  without  speech,  was  a  question  Anderson  hastened 
to  answer. 

"It's  straight  goods,"  he  declared.  "Them's  the  sure- 
enough  rules  of  that  gang.  We  made  certain  before  we 
acted.  Now  how  do  they  strike  you?" 

"Why,  that's  no  labor  union!"  replied  Kurt,  hotly. 
"They're  outlaws,  thieves,  blackmailers,  pirates.  I — 
I  don't  know  what!" 

"  Dorn,  we're  up  against  a  bad  outfit  an"  the  Northwest 
will  see  hell  this  summer.  There's  trouble  in  Montana 
and  Idaho.  Strangers  are  driftin'  into  Washington  from 
all  over.  We  must  organize  to  meet  them — to  prevent 
them  gettin'  a  hold  out  here.  It's  a  labor  union,  mostly 
aliens,  with  dishonest  an'  unscrupulous  leaders,  some  of 
them  Americans.  They  aim  to  take  advantage  of  the 
war  situation.  In  the  newspapers  they  rave  about 
shorter  hours,  more  pay,  acknowledgment  of  the  union. 
But  any  fool  would  see,  if  he  read  them  laws  I  showed  you, 
that  this  I.  W.  W.  is  not  straight." 

"Mr.  Anderson,  what  steps  have  you  taken  down  in 
your  country?"  queried  Kurt. 

"So  far  all  I've  done  was  to  hire  my  hands  for  a  year, 
give  them  high  wages,  an'  caution  them  when  strangers 
come  round  to  feed  them  an'  be  civil  an'  send  them  on." 

"But  we  can't  do  that  up  here  in  the  Bend,"  said  Dorn, 
seriously.  "We  need,  say,  a  hundred  thousand  men  in 
harvest-time,  and  not  ten  thousand  all  the  rest  of  the 
year." 

8 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"  Sure  you  can't.  But  you'll  have  to  organize  somethin'. 
Up  here  in  this  desert  you  could  have  a  heap  of  trouble  if 
that  outfit  got  here  strong  enough.  You'd  better  tell 
every  farmer  you  can  trust  about  this  I.  W.  W." 

"I've  only  one  American  neighbor,  and  he  lives  six 
miles  from  here,"  replied  Dorn.  "Olsen  over  there  is  a 
Swede,  and  not  a  naturalized  citizen,  but  I  believe  he's 
for  the  U.  S.  And  there's—" 

"Dad,"  interrupted  the  girl,  "I  believe  our  driver  is 
listening  to  your  very  uninteresting  conversation." 

She  spoke  demurely,  with  laughter  in  her  low  voice. 
It  made  Dorn  dare  to  look  at  her,  and  he  met  a  blue 
blaze  that  was  instantly  averted. 

Anderson  growled,  evidently  some  very  hard  names, 
under  his  breath ;  his  look  just  then  was  full  of  characteris 
tic  Western  spirit.  Then  he  got  up. 

"Lenore,  I  reckon  your  talk  '11  be  more  interesting  than 
mine,"  he  said,  dryly.  "I'll  go  see  Dorn  an'  get  this  busi 
ness  over." 

"I'd  rather  go  with  you,"  hurriedly  replied  Kurt;  and 
then,  as  though  realizing  a  seeming  discourtesy  in  his 
words,  his  face  flamed,  and  he  stammered:  "I — I  don't 
mean  that.  But  father  is  in  bad  mood.  We  just  quarreled. 
— I  told  you — about  the  war.  And — Mr.  Anderson,  I'm— - 
I'm  a  little  afraid  he'll— " 

"Well,  son,  I'm  not  afraid,"  interrupted  the  rancher. 
"I'll  beard  the  old  lion  in  his  den.  You  talk  to  Lenore." 

"Please  don't  speak  of  the  war,"  said  Kurt,  appeal- 
ingly. 

"Not  a  word  unless  he  starts  roarin'  at  Uncle  Sam," 
declared  Anderson,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  and  turned 
toward  the  house. 

"He'll  roar,  all  right,"  said  Kurt,  almost  with  a  groan. 
He  knew  what  an  ordeal  awaited  the  rancher,  and  he 
hated  the  fact  that  it  could  not  be  avoided.  Then  Kurt 
was  confused,  astounded,  infuriated  with  himself  over  a 
situation  he  had  not  brought  about  and  could  scarcely 

9 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

realize.     He  became  conscious  of  pride  and  shame,  and 
something  as  black  and  hopeless  as  despair. 

" Haven't  I  seen  you — before;"'  asked  the  g  rl. 
,    The  query  surprised  and  thrilled  Kurt  out  of  his  self- 
centered  thought. 

"I  don't  know.  Have  you?  Where?"  he  answered, 
facing  her.  It  was  a  relief  to  find  that  she  still  averted 
her  face. 

"At  Berkeley,  in  California,  the  first  time,  and  the 
second  at  Spokane,  in  front  of  the  Davenport,"  she 
replied. 

" First — and — second?  .  .  .  You — you  remembered 
both  times!"  he  burst  out,  incredulously. 

"Yes.  I  don't  see  how  I  could  have  helped  remember 
ing."  Her  laugh  was  low,  musical,  a  little  hurried,  yet 
cool. 

Dorn  was  not  familiar  with  girls.  He  had  worked  hard 
all  his  life,  there  among  those  desert  hills,  and  during  the 
few  years  his  father  had  allowed  him  for  education.  He 
knew  wheat,  but  nothing  of  the  eternal  feminine.  So  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  grasp  that  this  girl  was  not 
wholly  at  her  ease.  Her  words  and  the  cool  little  laugh 
suddenly  brought  home  to  Kurt  the  immeasurable  distance 
between  him  and  a  daughter  of  one  of  the  richest  ranchers 
in  Washington. 

"You  mean  I — I  was  impertinent,"  he"began,  struggling 
between  shame  and  pride.  "I — I  stared  at  you.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  must  have  been  rude.  .  .  .  But,  Miss  Anderson, 
I — I  didn't  mean  to  be.  I  didn't  think  you  saw  me — at 
all.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  do  that.  It  never 
happened  before.  I  beg  your  pardon." 

A  subtle  indefinable  change,  perceptible  to  Dorn,  even 
in  his  confused  state,  came  over  the  girl. 

"I  did  not  say  you  were  impertinent,"  sne  returned. 
"I  remembered  seeing  you — notice  me,  that  is  all." 

Self-possessed,  aloof,  and  kind,  Miss  Anderson  now 
became  an  impenetrable  mystery  to  Dorn.  But  that  only 

10 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

accentuated  the  distance  she  had  intimated  lay  between 
them.  Her  kindness  stung  him  to  recover  his  composure. 
He  wished  she  had  not  been  kind.  What  a  singular  chance 
that  had  brought  her  here  to  his  home — the  daughter  of  a 
man  who  came  to  demand  a  long-unpaid  debt !  What  a 
dispelling  of  the  vague  thing  that  had  been  only  a  dream! 
Dorn  gazed  away  across  the  yellowing  hills  to  the  dim  blue 
of  the  mountains  where  rolled  the  Oregon.  Despite  the 
color,  it  was  gray — like  his  future. 

"I  heard  you  tell  father  you  had  studied  wheat,"  said 
the  girl,  presently,  evidently  trying  to  make  conversation. 

"Yes,  all  my  life,"  replied  Kurt.  "My  study  has 
mostly  been  under  my  father.  Look  at  my  hands." 
He  held  out  big,  strong  hands,  scarred  and  knotted,  with 
horny  palms  uppermost,  and  he  laughed.  "I  can  be 
proud  of  them,  Miss  Anderson.  .  .  .  But  I  had  a  splendid 
year  in  California  at  the  university  and  I  graduated  from 
the  Washington  State  Agricultural  College." 

"You  love  wheat — the  raising  of  it,  I  mean?"  she 
inquired. 

* '  It  must  be  that  I  do,  though  I  never  had  such  a  thought. 
Wheat  is  so  wonderful.  No  one  can  guess  who  does  not 
know  it!  ...  The  clean,  plump  grain,  the  sowing  on 
fallow  ground,  the  long  wait,  the  first  tender  green,  and  the 
change  day  by  day  to  the  deep  waving  fields  of  gold — 
then  the  harvest,  hot,  noisy,  smoky,  full  of  dust  and  chaff, 
and  the  great  combine-harvesters  with  thirty-four  horses. 
Oh !  I  guess  I  do  love  it  all.  ...  I  worked  in  a  Spokane 
flour-mill,  too,  just  to  learn  how  flour  is  made.  There  is 
nothing  in  the  world  so  white,  so  clean,  so  pure  as  flour 
made  from  the  wheat  of  these  hills!" 

"Next  you'll  be  telling  me  that  you  can  bake  bread," 
she  rejoined,  and  her  laugh  was  low  and  sweet.  Her  eyes 
shone  with  soft  blue  gleams. 

"Indeed  I  can!  I  bake  all  the  bread  we  use,"  he  said, 
stoutly.  "And  I  flatter  myself  I  can  beat  any  girl  you 
know." 

2  II 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"  You  can  beat  mine,  I'm  sure.  Before  I  went  to  college 
I  did  pretty  well.  But  I  learned  too  much  there.  Now 
my  mother  and  sisters,  and  brother  Jim,  all  the  family 
except  dad,  make  fun  of  my  bread." 

*  *  You  have  a  brother  ?     How  old  is  he  ? " 

"One  brother — Jim,  we  call  him.  He — he  is  just  past 
twenty-one."  She  faltered  the  last  few  words. 

Kurt  felt  on  common  ground  with  her  then.  The 
sudden  break  in  her  voice,  the  change  in  her  face,  the 
shadowing  of  the  blue  eyes — these  were  eloquent. 

1  'Oh,  it's  horrible — this  need  of  war!"    she  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  simply.  "But  maybe  your  brother 
will  not  be  called." 

"Called!  Why,  he  refused  to  wait  for  the  draft!  He 
went  and  enlisted.  Dad  patted  him  on  the  back.  .  .  . 
If  anything  happens  to  him  it  '11  kill  my  mother.  Jim  is 
her  idol.  It  'd  break  my  heart.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  hate  the 
very  name  of  Germans!" 

"My  father  is  German,"  said  Kurt.  "He's  been  fifty 
•  years  in  America — eighteen  years  here  on  this  faim.  He 
always  hated  England.  Now  he's  bitter  against  Amer 
ica.  ...  I  can  see  a  side  you  can't  see.  But  I  don't 
blame  you — for  what  you  said." 

"Forgive  me.  I  can't  conceive  of  meaning  that  against 
any  one  who's  lived  here  so  long.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  must  be 
hard  for  you." 

"I'll  let  my  father  think  I'm  forced  to  join  the  army. 
But  I'm  going  to  fight  against  his  people.  We  are  a 
house  divided  against  itself." 

"Oh,  what  a  pity!"  The  girl  sighed  and  her  eyes  were 
dark  with  brooding  sorrow. 

A  step  sounded  behind  them.  Mr.  Anderson  ap 
peared,  sombrero  off,  mopping  a  very  red  face.  His 
eyes  gleamed,  with  angry  glints;  his  mouth  and  chin 
were  working.  He  flopped  down  with  a  great,  explosive 
breath. 

"Kurt,  your  old  man  is  a — a — son  of  a  gun!"  he  ex- 

12 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

claimed,  vociferously;  manifestly,  liberation  of  speech  was 
a  relief. 

The  young  man  nodded  seriously  and  knowingly.  "I 
hope,  sir — he — he — " 

"  He  did — you  just  bet  your  life !  He  called  me  a  lot  in 
German,  but  I  know  cuss  words  when  I  hear  them.  I 
tried  to  reason  with  him — told  him  I  wanted  my  money — 
was  here  to  help  him  get  that  money  off  the  farm,  some  way 
or  other.  An'  he  swore  I  was  a  capitalist — an  enemy  to 
labor  an'  the  Northwest — that  I  an'  my  kind  had  caused 
the  war." 

Kurt  gazed  gravely  into  the  disturbed  face  of  the 
rancher.  Miss  Anderson  had  wide-open  eyes  of  wonder. 

"Sure  I  could  have  stood  all  that,"  went  on  Anderson, 
fuming.  "But  he  ordered  me  out  of  the  house.  I  got 
mad  an'  wouldn't  go.  Then — by  George!  he  pulled  my 
nose  an'  called  me  a  bloody  Englishman!" 

Kurt  groaned  in  the  disgrace  of  the  moment.  But, 
amazingly,  Miss  Anderson  burst  into  a  silvery  peal  of 
laughter. 

"Oh,  dad!  .  .  .  that's — just  too — good  for — anything! 
You  met  your — match  at  last.  .  .  .  You  know  you 
always — boasted  of  your  drop  of  English  blood.  .  .  . 
And  you're  sensitive — about  your  big  nose!" 

"He  must  be  over  seventy,"  growled  Anderson,  as  if 
seeking  for  some  excuse  to  palliate  his  restraint.  "I'm 
mad — but  it  was  funny."  The  working  of  his  face  finally 
set  in  the  huge  wrinkles  of  a  laugh. 

Young  Dorn  struggled  to  repress  his  own  mirth,  but 
unguardedly  he  happened  to  meet  the  dancing  blue  eyes  of 
the  girl,  merry,  provocative,  full  of  youth  and  fun,  and  that 
was  too  much  for  him.  He  laughed  with  them. 

"The  joke's  on  me,"  said  Anderson.  "An'  I  can  take 
one.  .  .  .  Now,  young  man,  I  think  I  gathered  from  your 
amiable  dad  that  if  the  crop  of  wheat  was  full  I'd  get  my 
money.  Otherwise  I  could  take  over  the  land.  For  my 
part,  I'd  never  do  that,  but  the  others  interested  might  do 

13 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

it,  even  for  the  little  money  involved.  I  tried  to  buy  them 
out  so  I'd  have  the  whole  mortgage.  They  would  not 
sell." 

"Mr.  Anderson,  you're  a  square  man,  and  I'll  do — " 
declared  Kurt. 

11  Come  out  an'  show  me  the  wheat,"  interrupted  Ander 
son.  "Lenore,  do  you  want  to  go  with  us?" 

"I  do,"  replied  the  daughter,  and  she  took  up  her  hat  to 
put  it  on. 

Kurt  led  them  through  the  yard,  out  past  the  old  barn, 
to  the  edge  of  the  open  slope  where  the  wheat  stretched 
away,  down  and  up,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see. 


CHAPTER   II 

"T  \  TE'VE  got  over  sixteen  hundred  acres  in  fallow 

VV  ground,  a  half -section  in  rye,  another  half  in 
wheat — Turkey  Red — and  this  section  you  see,  six  hun 
dred  and  forty  acres,  in  Bluestem,"  said  Kurt. 

Anderson's  keen  eyes  swept  from  near  at  hand  to  far 
away,  down  the  gentle,  billowy  slope  and  up  the  far 
hillside.  The  wheat  was  two  feet  high,  beginning  to  be 
thick  and  heavy  at  the  heads,  as  if  struggling  to  burst. 
A  fragrant,  dry,  wheaty  smell,  mingled  with  dust,  came  on 
the  soft  summer  breeze,  and  a  faint  silken  rustle.  The 
greenish,  almost  blue  color  near  at  hand  gradually  in  the 
distance  grew  lighter,  and  then  yellow,  and  finally  took  on 
a  tinge  of  gold.  There  was  a  living  spirit  in  that  vast 
wheat-field. 

"  Dorn,  it's  the  finest  wheat  I've  seen !"  exclaimed  Ander 
son,  with  the  admiration  of  the  farmer  who  aspired  high. 
"In  fact,  it's  the  only  fine  field  of  wheat  I've  seen  since  we 
left  the  foot-hills.  How  is  that?" 

1  'Late  spring  and  dry  weather,"  replied  Dorn.  "Most 
of  the  farmers'  reports  are  poor.  If  we  get  rain  over  the 
Bend  country  we'll  have  only  an  average  yield  this  year. 
If  we  don't  get  rain — then  a  flat  failure." 

Miss  Anderson  evinced  an  interest  in  the  subject  and  she 
wanted  to  know  why  this  particular  field,  identical  with  all 
the  others  for  miles  around,  should  have  a  promise  of  a 
magnificent  crop  when  the  others  had  no  promise  at  all. 

"This  section  lay  fallow  a  long  time,"  replied  Dorn. 
"Snow  lasted  here  on  this  north  slope  quite  a  while.  My 
father  used  a  method  of  soil  cultivation  intended  to  con 
serve  moisture.  The  seed  wheat  was  especially  selected. 
And  if  we  have  rain  during  the  next  ten  days  this  section 
of  Blud&tem  will  yield  fifty  bushels  to  the  acre." 

IS 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Fifty  bushels!'*  ejaculated  Ander  on. 

"Bluestem?  Why  do  you  call  it  that  when  it's  green 
and  yellow?"  que  ied  the  girl 

"It's  a  name.  There  are  many  varieties  of  wheat. 
Bluestem  is  best  here  in  this  desert  country  because  it 
resists  drought,  it  produces  large  yield,  it  does  not  break, 
and  the  flour-mills  rate  it  very  high.  Bluestem  is  not 
good  in  wet  soils." 

Anderson  tramped  along  the  edge  of  the  field,  peering 
down,  here  and  there  pulling  a  shaft  of  wheat  and  examin 
ing  it.  The  girl  gazed  with  dreamy  eyes  across  the 
undulating  sea.  And  Dorn  watched  her. 

"We  have  a  ranch — thousands  of  acres — but  not  like 
this,"  she  said. 

"What's  the  difference?"  asked  Dorn. 

She  appeared  pensive  and  in  doubt. 

"I  hardly  know.  What  would  you  call  this — this 
scene?" 

"Why,  I  call  it  the  desert  of  wheat!  But  no  one  else 
does,"  he  replied. 

' '  I  named  father's  ranch  *  Many  Waters. '  I  think  those 
names  tell  the  difference." 

"Isn't  my  desert  beautiful?" 

' '  No.  It  has  a  sameness — a  monotony  that  would  drive 
me  mad.  It  looks  as  if  the  whole  world  had  gone  to  wheat. 
It  makes  me  think — oppresses  me.  All  this  means  that 
we  live  by  wheat  alone.  These  bare  hills!  They're  too 
open  to  wind  and  sun  and  snow.  They  look  like  the  toil 
of  ages." 

"Miss  Anderson,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  love  for  the 
earth — the  bare  brown  earth.  You  know  we  came  from 
dust,  and  to  dust  we  return!  These  fields  are  human  to 
my  father.  And  they  have  come  to  speak  to  me — a  lan 
guage  I  don't  understand  yet.  But  I  mean — what  you 
see — the  growing  wheat  here,  the  field  of  clods  over 'there, 
the  wind  and  dust  and  glare  and  heat,  the  eternal  same 
ness  of  the  open  space — these  are  the  tilings  around 

16 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

which  my  life  has  centered,  and  when  I  go  away  from 
them  I  am  not  content." 

Anderson  came  back  to  the  young  couple,  carrying  some 
heads  of  wheat  in  his  hand. 

"Smut!"  he  exclaimed,  showing  both  diseased  and 
healthy  specimens  of  wheat.  "Had  to  hunt  hard  to  find 
that.  Smut  is  the  bane  of  all  wheat-growers.  I  never 
saw  so  little  of  it  as  there  is  here.  In  fact,  we  know 
scarcely  nothin'  about  smut  an'  its  cure,  if  there  is  any. 
You  farmers  who  raise  only  grain  have  got  the  work  down 
to  a  science.  This  Bluestem  is  not  bearded  wheat,  like 
Turkey  Red.  Has  that  beard  anythin'  to  do  with 
smut?" 

"I  think  not.  The  parasite,  or  fungus,  lives  inside  the 
wheat." 

"Never  heard  that  before.  No  wonder  smut  is  the 
worst  trouble  for  wheat-raisers  in  the  Northwest.  I've 
fields  literally  full  of  smut.  An'  we  never  are  rid  of 
it.  One  farmer  has  one  idea,  an'  some  one  else  another. 
What  could  be  of  greater  importance  to  a  farmer?  We're 
at  war.  The  men  who  claim  to  know  say  that  wheat  will 
win  the  war.  An'  we  lose  millions  of  bushels  from  this 
smut.  That's  to  say  it's  a  terrible  fact  to  face.  I'd  like 
to  get  your  ideas." 

Dorn,  happening  to  glance  again  at  Miss  Anderson,  an 
act  that  seemed  to  be  growing  habitual,  read  curiosity 
and  interest,  and  something  more,  in  her  direct  blue  eyes. 
The  circumstance  embarrassed  him,  though  it  tugged  at 
the  flood-gates  of  his  knowledge.  He  could  talk  about 
wheat,  and  he  did  like  to.  Yet  here  was  a  girl  who  might 
be  supposed  to  be  bored.  Still,  she  did  not  appear  to  be. 
That  warm  glance  was  not  politeness. 

"Yes,  I'd  like  to  hear  every  word  you  can  say  about 
wheat,"  she  said,  with  an  encouraging  little  nod. 

"Sure  she  would,"  added  Anderson,  with  an  affection 
ate  hand  on  her  shoulder,  "She's  a  farmer's  daughter 
She'll  be  a  fanner's  wife." 

17 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

He  laughed  at  this  last  sally.  The  girl  blushed.  Dorn 
smiled  and  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"I  imagine  that  good  fortune  will  never  befall  a  farmer," 
he  said. 

"Well,  if  it  should,"  she  replied,  archly,  "just  consider 
how  I  might  surprise  him  with  my  knowledge  of  wheat.  . . . 
Indeed,  Mr.  Dorn,  I  am  interested.  I've  never  been  in  the 
Bend  before — in  your  desert  of  wheat.  I  never  before  felt 
the  greatness  of  loving  the  soil — or  caring  for  it — of  grow 
ing  things  from  seed.  Yet  the  Bible  teaches  that,  and  I 
read  my  Bible.  Please  tell  us.  The  more  you  say  the 
more  I'll  like  it." 

Dorn  was  not  proof  against  this  eloquence.  And  he 
quoted  two  of  his  authorities,  Heald  and  Woolman,  of 
the  State  Agricultural  Experiment  Station,  where  he  had 
studied  for  two  years. 

"Bunt,  or  stinking  smut,  is  caused  by  two  different 
species  of  microscopic  fungi  which  live  as  parasites  in  the 
wheat  plant.  Both  are  essentially  similar  in  their  effects 
and  their  life-history.  Tilletia  tritici,  or  the  rough-spored 
variety,  is  the  common  stinking  smut  of  the  Pacific 
regions,  while  Tilletia  fatans,  or  the  smooth-spored  species, 
is  the  one  generally  found  in  the  eastern  United  States. 

"The  smut  'berries/  or  'balls/  from  an  infected  head 
contain  millions  of  minute  bodies,  the  spores  or  'seeds'  of 
the  smut  fungus.  These  reproduce  the  smut  in  somewhat 
the  same  way  that  a  true  seed  develops  into  a  new  plant. 
A  single  smut  ball  of  average  size  contains  a  sufficient 
number  of  spores  to  give  one  for  each  grain  of  wheat  in 
five  or  six  bushels.  It  takes  eight  smut  spores  to  equal  the 
diameter  of  a  human  hair.  Normal  wheat  grains  from  an 
infected  field  may  have  so  many  spores  lodged  on  their 
surface  as  to  give  them  a  dark  color,  but  other  grains  which 
show  no  difference  in  color  to  the  naked  eye  may  still 
contain  a  sufficient  number  of  spores  to  produce  a  smutty 
crop  if  seed  treatment  is  not  practised. 

"When  living  smut  spores  are  introduced  into  the  soil 

18 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

with  the  seed  wheat,  or  exist  in  the  soil  in  which  smut-free 
wheat  is  sown,  a  certain  percentage  of  the  wheat  plants  are 
likely  to  become  infected.  The  smut  spore  germinates  and 
produces  first  a  stage  of  the  smut  plant  in  the  soil.  This 
first  stage  never  infects  a  j^oung  seedling  direct,  but  gives 
rise  to  secondary  spores,  or  sporida,  from  which  infection 
threads  may  arise  and  penetrate  the  shoot  of  a  young 
seedling  and  reach  the  growing  point.  Here  the  fungus 
threads  keep  pace  with  the  growth  of  the  plant  and 
reach  maturity  at  or  slightly  before  harvest-time. 

"  Since  this  disease  is  caused  by  an  internal  parasite,  it  is 
natural  to  expect  certain  responses  to  its  presence.  It 
should  be  noted  first  that  the  smut  fungus  is  living  at  the 
expense  of  its  host  plant,  the  wheat,  and  its  effect  on  the 
host  may  be  summarized  as  follows :  The  consumption  of 
food,  the  destruction  of  food  in  the  sporulating  process, 
and  the  stimulating  or  retarding  effect  on  normal  physio 
logical  processes. 

"Badly  smutted  plants  remain  in  many  cases  under-size 
and  produce  fewer  and  smaller  heads.  In  the  Fife  and 
Bluestem  varieties  the  infected  heads  previous  to  maturity 
exhibit  a  darker  green  color,  and  remain  green  longer  than 
the  normal  heads.  In  some  varieties  the  infected  heads 
stand  erect,  when  normal  ones  begin  to  droop  as  a  result  of 
the  increasing  weight  of  the  ripening  grain. 

"  A  crop  may  become  infected  with  smut  in  a  number  of 
different  ways.  Smut  was  originally  introduced  with  the 
seed,  and  many  farmers  are  still  planting  it  every  season 
with  their  seed  wheat.  Wheat  taken  from  a  smutty  crop 
will  have  countless  numbers  of  loose  spores  adhering  to  the 
grains,  also  a  certain  number  of  unbroken  smut  balls. 
These  are  always  a  source  of  danger,  even  when  the  seed  is 
treated  with  fungicides  before  sowing. 

"There  are  also  chances  for  the  infection  of 'a  crop  if 
absolutely  smut-free  seed  is  employed.  First,  soil  infec 
tion  from  a  previous  smutty  crop;  second,  soil  infection 
from  wind-blown  spores.  Experiments  have  shown  that 

19 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

separated  spores  from  crushed  smut  balls  lose  their  effec 
tive  power  in  from  two  to  three  months,  provided  the  soil 
is  moist  and  loose,  and  in  no  case  do  they  survive  a  winter. 

"It  does  not  seem  probable  that  wheat  smut  will  be 
controlled  by  any  single  practice,  but  rather  by  the  com 
bined  use  of  various  methods:  crop  rotation;  the  use  of 
clean  seed;  seed  treatment  with  fungicides;  cultural 
practices  and  breeding ;  and  selection  of  varieties. 

"Failure  to  practise  crop  rotation  is  undoubtedly  one  of 
the  main  explanations  for  the  general  prevalence  of  smut 
in  the  wheat-fields  of  eastern  Washington.  Even  with  an 
intervening  surnmer  fallow,  the  smut  from  a  previous  crop 
may  be  a  source  of  infection.  Experience  shows  that  a  fall 
stubble  crop  is  less  liable  to  smut  infection  than  a  crop 
following  summer  fallow.  The  apparent  explanation  for 
this  condition  is  the  fact  that  the  summer  fallow  becomes 
infected  with  wind-blown  spores,  while  in  a  stubble  crop 
the  wind-blown  spores,  as  well  as  those  originating  from 
the  previous  crop,  are  buried  in  plowing. 

"  If  clean  seed  or  properly  treated  seed  had  been  used  by 
all  farmers  we  should  never  have  had  a  smut  problem. 
High  per  cents,  of  smut  indicate  either  soil  infection  or 
imperfect  treatment.  The  principle  of  the  chemical 
treatment  is  to  use  a  poison  which  will  kill  the  superficial 
spores  of  the  smut  and  not  materially  injure  the  germi 
nating  power  of  the  seed.  The  hot- water  treatment  is  only 
recommended  when  one  of  the  chemical  'steeps'  is  not 
effective. 

"Certain  cultural  practices  are  beneficial  in  reducing  the 
amount  of  smut  in  all  cases,  while  the  value  of  others 
depends  to  some  extent  upon  the  source  of  the  smut  spores. 
The  factors  which  always  influence  the  amount  of  smut  are 
the  temperature  of  the  soil  during  the  germinating  period, 
the  amount  of  soil  moisture,  and  the  depth  of  seeding. 
Where  seed-borne  spores  are  the  only  sources  of  infection, 
attention  to  the  three  factors  mentioned  will  give  the  only 
cultural  practices  for  reducing  the  amount  of  smut. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Early  seeding  has  been  practised  by  various  farmers, 
and  they  report  a  marked  reduction  in  smut. 

"The  replowing  of  the  summer  fallow  after  the  first  fall 
rains  is  generally  effective  in  reducing  the  amount  of  smut. 

''Very  late  planting — that  is,  four  or  five  weeks  after 
the  first  good  fall  rains — is  also  an  effective  practice. 
Fall  tillage  of  summer  fallow,  other  than  plowing,  seems  to 
be  beneficial. 

"No  smut-immune  varieties  of  wheat  are  known,  but 
the  standard  varieties  show  varying  degrees  of  resistance. 
Spring  wheats  generally  suffer  less  from  smut  than  winter 
varieties.  This  is  not  due  to  any  superior  resistance,  but 
rather  to  the  fact  that  they  escape  infection.  If  only 
spring  wheats  were  grown  our  smut  problem  would  largely 
disappear;  but  a  return  to  this  practice  is  not  suggested, 
since  the  winter  wheats  are  much  more  desirable.  It 
seems  probable  that  the  conditions  which  prevail  during 
the  growing  season  may  have  considerable  influence  on  the 
per  cent,  of  smuf  ja  any  given  variety.'* 

When  Dorn  finished  his  discourse,  to  receive  the  thanks 
of  his  listeners,  they  walked  back  through  the  yard  toward 
the  road.  Mr.  Anderson,  who  led  the  way,  halted  rather 
abruptly. 

"Hum!  Who  're  those  men  talkin'  to  my  driver?"  he 
queried. 

Dorn  then  saw  a  couple  of  strangers  standing  near  the 
motor-car,  engaged  in  apparently  close  conversation  with 
the  chauffeur.  Upon  the  moment  they  glanced  up  to  see 
Mr.  Anderson  approaching,  and  they  rather  hurriedly 
departed.  Dorn  had  noted  a  good  many  strangers  lately 
— men  whose  garb  was  not  that  of  farmers,  whose  faces 
seemed  foreign,  whose  actions  were  suspicious. 

"I'll  bet  a  hundred  they're  I  W.  W.'s,"  declared  Ander 
son.  "Take  my  hunch,  Dorn." 

The  strangers  passed  on  down  the  road  without  looking 
back. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Wonder  where  they'll  sleep  tonight?"  muttered  Dorn. 

Anderson  rather  sharply  asked  his  driver  what  the  two 
men  wanted.  And  the  reply  he  got  was  that  they  were 
inquiring  about  work. 

"Did  they  speak  English?"  went  on  the  rancher. 

"Well  enough  to  make  themselves  understood,"  replied 
the  driver. 

Dorn  did  not  get  a  good  impression  from  the  shifty 
eyes  and  air  of  taciturnity  of  Mr.  Anderson's  man,  and 
it  was  evident  that  the  blunt  rancher  restrained  himself. 
He  helped  his  daughter  into  the  car,  and  then  put  on  his 
long  coat.  Next  he  shook  hand?,  with  Dorn. 

"Young  man,  I've  enjoyed  meetin'  you,  an'  have  sure 
profited  from  same,"  he  said.  "Which  makes  up  for  your 
dad !  I'll  run  over  here  again  to  see  you — around  harvest- 
time.  An'  I'll  be  wishin'  for  that  rain." 

"Thank  you.  If  it  does  rain  I'll  be  happy  to  see  you," 
replied  Dorn,  with  a  smile. 

"Well,  if  it  doesn't  rain  I  won't  come.  I'll  put  it  off 
another  year,  an'  cuss  them  other  fellers  into  hoi  din'  off, 
too." 

"You're  very  kind.  I  don't  know  how  I'd — we'd  ever 
repay  you  in  that  case." 

"  Don't  mention  it.  Say,  how  far  did  you  say  it  was  to 
Palmer?  We'll  have  lunch  there." 

"It's  fifteen  miles — that  way,"  answered  Dorn.  " If  it 
wasn't  for — for  father  I'd  like  you  to  stay — and  break 
some  of  my  bread." 

Dorn  was  looking  at  the  girl  as  he  spoke.  Her  steady 
gaze  had  been  on  him  ever  since  she  entered  the  car,  and  in 
the  shade  of  her  hat  and  the  veil  she  was  adjusting  her 
eyes  seemed  very  dark  and  sweet  and  thoughtful.  She 
brightly  nodded  her  thanks  as  she  held  the  veil  aside  with 
both  hands. 

"I  wish  you  luck.  Good-by,"  she  said,  and  closed  the 
veil. 

Still,  Dorn  could  see  her  eyes  through  it,  and  now  they 

22 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

were  sweeter,  more  mysterious,  more  provocative  of 
haunting  thoughts.  It  flashed  over  him  with  dread  cer 
tainty  .that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her.  The  shock 
struck  him  mute.  He  had  no  reply  for  the  rancher's 
hearty  farewell.  Then  the  car  lurched  away  and  dust 
rose  in  a  cloud. 


CHAPTER  III 

WITH  a  strange  knocking  of  his  heart,  high  up  toward 
his  throat,  Kurt  Dorn  stood  stock-still,  watching 
the  moving  cloud  of  dust  until  it  disappeared  over  the  hill. 
No  doubt  entered  his  mind.  The  truth,  the  fact,  was  a 
year  old — a  long-familiar  and  dreamy  state — but  its 
meaning  had  not  been  revealed  to  him  until  just  a  moment 
past.  Everything  had  changed  when  she  looked  out  with 
that  sweet,  steady  gaze  through  the  parted  veil  and  then 
slowly  closed  it.  She  had  changed.  There  was  something 
intangible  about  her  that  last  moment,  baffling,  haunting. 
He  leaned  against  a  crooked  old  gate-post  that  as  a  boy  he 
had  climbed,  and  the  thought  came  to  him  that  this  spot 
would  all  his  life  be  vivid  and  poignant  in  his  memory. 
The  first  sight  of  a  blue-eyed,  sunny-haired  girl,  a  year  and 
more  before,  had  struck  deep  into  his  unconscious  heart; 
a  second  sight  had  made  her  an  unforgetable  reality:  and 
a  third  had  been  the  realization  of  love. 

It  was  sad,  regrettable,  incomprehensible,  and  yet 
somehow  his  inner  being  swelled  and  throbbed.  Her  name 
was  Lenore  Anderson.  Her  father  was  one  of  the  richest 
men  in  the  ctate  of  Washington.  She  had  one  brother, 
Jim,  who  would  not  wait  for  the  army  draft.  Kurt 
trembled  and  a  hot  rush  of  tears  dimmed  his  eyes.  All  at 
once  his  lot  seemed  unbearable.  An  immeasurable  bar 
rier  had  arisen  between  him  and  his  old  father — a  hideous 
thing  of  blood,  of  years,  of  ineradicable  difference;  the 
broad  acres  of  wheatland  so  dear  to  him  were  to  be  taken 
from  him;  love  had  overcome  him  with  headlong  rush, 
a  love  that  could  never  be  returned;  and  crudest  of  all, 
there  was  the  war  calling  him  to  give  up  his  home,  his 
father,  his  future,  and  to  go  out  to  kill  and  to  be  killed. 

It  came  to  him  while  he  leaned  there,  that,  remembering 

24 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

the  light  of  Lenore  Anderson's  eyes,  he  could  not  give  u£  fco 
bitterness  and  hatred,  whatever  his  misfortunes  and  nis 
fate.  She  would  never  be  anything  to  him,  but  he  and 
her  brother  Jim  and  many  other  young  Americans  must  be 
incalculable  all  to  her.  That  thought  saved  Kurt  Dorn. 
There  were  other  things  besides  his  own  career,  his  happi 
ness;  and  the  way  he  was  placed,  however  unfortunate 
from  a  selfish  point  of  view,  must  not  breed  a  morbid 
self-pity. 

The  moment  of  his  resolution  brought  a  flash,  a  revela 
tion  of  what  he  owed  himself.  The  work  and  the  thought 
and  the  feeling  of  his  last  few  weeks  there  at  home  must  be 
intensified.  He  must  do  much  and  live  greatly  in  little 
time.  This  was  the  moment  of  his  renunciation,  and  he 
imagined  that  many  a  young  man  who  had  decided  to  go 
to  war  had  experienced  a  strange  spiritual  division  of  self. 
He  wondered  also  if  that  moment  was  not  for  many  of 
them  a  let-down,  a  throwing  up  of  ideals,  a  helpless 
retrograding  and  surrender  to  the  brutalizing  spirit  of 
war.  But  it  could  never  be  so  for  him.  It  might  have 
been  had  not  that  girl  come  into  his  life. 

The  bell  for  the  midday  meal  roused  Kurt  from  his 
profound  reverie,  and  he  plodded  back  to  the  house. 
Down  through  the  barn-yard  gate  he  saw  the  hired  men 
coming,  and  a  second  glance  discovered  to  him  that  two 
unknown  men  were  with  them.  Watching  for  a  moment, 
Kurt  recognized  the  two  strangers  that  had  been  talking 
to  Mr.  Anderson's  driver.  They  seemed  to  be  talking 
earnestly  now.  Kurt  saw  Jerry,  a  trusty  and  long-tried 
employee,  rather  unceremoniously  break  away  from  these 
strangers.  But  they  followed  him,  headed  him  off,  and 
with  vehement  nods  and  gesticulations  appeared  to  be 
arguing  with  him.  The  other  hired  men  pushed  closer, 
evidently  listening.  Finally  Jerry  impatiently  broke 
away  and  tramped  toward  the  house  These  strangers 
sent  sharp  words  after  him — words  that  Kurt  could  not 
distinguish,  though  he  caught  the  tone  of  scorn.  Then  the 

25 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

two  individuals  addressed  themselves  to  the  other  men; 
and  in  close  contact  the  whole  party  passed  out  of  sight 
behind  the  barn. 

Thoughtfully  Kurt  went  into  the  house.  He  meant  to 
speak  to  Jerry  about  the  strangers,  but  he  wanted  to  con 
sider  the  matter  first.  He  had  misgivings.  His  father 
was  not  in  the  sitting-room,  nor  in  the  kitchen.  Dinner 
was  ready  on  the  table,  and  the  one  servant,  an  old  woman 
who  had  served  the  Dorns  for  years,  appeared  impatient 
at  the  lack  of  promptness  in  the  men.  Both  father  and 
son,  except  on  Sundays,  always  ate  with  the  hired  help. 
Kurt  stepped  outside  to  find  Jerry  washing  at  the  bench. 

" Jerry,  what's  keeping  the  men?"  queried  Kurt. 

"Wai,  they're  palaverin'  oat  there  with  two  I.  W.  W. 
fellers,"  replied  Jerry. 

Kurt  reached  for  the  rope  of  the  farm-bell,  and  rang  it 
rather  sharply.  Then  he  went  in  to  take  his  place  at  the 
table,  and  Jerry  soon  followed.  Old  man  Dorn  did  not 
appear,  which  fact  was  not  unusual.  The  other  hired 
men  did  not  enter  until  Jerry  and  Kurt  were  half  done 
with  the  meal.  They  seemed  excited  and  somewhat  bois 
terous,  Kurt  thought,  but  once  they  settled  down  to 
eating,  after  the  manner  of  hungry  laborers,  they  had 
little  to  say.  Kurt,  soon  finishing  his  dinner,  went  out 
doors  to  wait  for  Jerry.  That  individual  appeared  to 
be  long  in  coming,  and  loud  voices  in  the  kitchen  attested 
to  further  argument.  At  last,  however,  he  lounged  out 
and  began  to  fill  a  pipe. 

"Jerry,  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Kurt.  "Let's 
get  away  from  the  house." 

The  hired  man  was  a  big,  lumbering  fellow,  gnarled  like 
an  old  oak-tree.  He  had  a  good-natured  face  and  honest 
eyes. 

"  I  reckon  you  want  to  hear  about  them  I.  W.  W.  fellers  ?" 
he  asked,  as  they  walked  away. 

"Yes,"  replied  Kurt. 

"There's  been  a  regular  procession  of  them  fellers,  the 

26 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

last  week  or  so,  walkin'  through  the  country,"  replied 
Jerry.  "To-day's  the  first  time  any  of  them  got  to  me. 
But  I've  heerd  talk.  Sunday  when  I  was  in  Palmer  the 
air  was  full  of  rumors." 

"Rumors  of  what?"  queried  Kurt. 

"All  kinds,"  answered  Jerry,  nonchalantly  scratching 
his  stubby  beard.  "  There's  an  army  of  I.  W.  W.'s  comin* 
in  from  eastward.  Idaho  an'  Montana  are  gittin'  a  dose 
now.  Short  hours;  double  wages;  join  the  union;  sab- 
botage,  whatever  thet  is;  capital  an'  labor  fight;  threats  if 
you  don't  fall  in  line;  an'  Lord  knows  what  all." 

"What  did  those  two  fellows  want  of  you?" 

"Wanted  us  to  join  the  I.  W.  W.,"  replied  the  laborer. 

"Did  they  want  a  job?" 

"  Not  as  I  heerd.  Why,  one  of  them  had  a  wad  of  bills 
thet  would  choke  a  cow.  He  did  most  of  the  talkin*. 
The  little  feller  witlj  the  beady  eyes  an'  the  pock-marks, 
he  didn't  say  much.  He's  Austrian  an'  not  long  in  this 
country.  The  big  stiff — Glidden,  he  called  himself — 
must  be  some  shucks  in  thet  I.  W.  W.  lie  looked  an* 
talked  oily  at  first — very  persuadin';  but  when  I  says  I 
wasn't  goin'  to  join  no  union  he  got  sassy  an'  bossy. 
Thet  made  me  sore,  so  I  told  him  to  go  to  hell.  Then  he 
said  the  I.  W.  W.  would  run  the  whole  Northwest  this 
summer — wheat-fields,  lumberin',  fruit-harvestin',  rail- 
roadin' — the  whole  kaboodle,  an'  thet  any  workman  who 
wouldn't  join  would  git  his,  all  right." 

"Well,  Jerry,  what  do  you  think  about  this  organiza 
tion?"  queried  Kurt,  anxiously. 

"Not  much.  It  ain't  a  square  deal.  I  'ain't  got  no 
belief  in  them.  What  I  heerd  of  their  threatenin' 
methods  is  like  the  way  this  Glidden  talks.  If  I  owned 
a  farm  I'd  drive  such  fellers  off  with  a  whip.  There's 
goin'  to  be  bad  doin's  if  they  come  driftin'  strong  into 
the  Bend." 

"Jerry,  are  you  satisfied  with  your  job?" 

"Sure.  I  won't  join  the  I.  W.  W.  An'  I'll  talk  ag'an', 
3  27 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

it.  I  reckon  a  few  of  us  will  hev  to  do  all  the  harvestin'. 
An',  considerin'  thet,  I'll  take  a  dollar  a  day  more  on  my 
wages." 

"If  father  does  not  agree  to  that,  I  will,"  said  Kurt. 
"Now  how  about  the  other  men?" 

"Wai,  they  all  air  leanin'  toward  promises  of  little  work 
an'  lots  of  pay, ' '  answered  Jerry,  with  a  laugh.  ' '  Morgan's 
on  the  fence  about  joinin'.  But  Andrew  agreed.  He's 
Dutch  an'  pig-headed.  Jansen's  only  too  glad  to  make 
trouble  fer  his  boss.  They're  goin'  to  lay  off  the  rest  of 
to-day  an'  talk  with  Glidden.  They  all  agreed  to  meet 
down  by  the  culvert.  An'  thet's  what  they  was  arguin' 
with  me  fer — wanted  me  to  come." 

"Where's  this  man  Glidden?"  demanded  Kurt.  "I'll 
give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind." 

"I  reckon  he's  hangin'  round  the  farm — out  of  sight- 
somewhere." 

"All  right,  Jerry.  Now  you  go  back  to  work.  You'll 
never  lose  anything  by  sticking  to  us,  I  promise  you  that. 
Keep  your  eyes  and  ears  open." 

Kurt  strode  back  to  the  house,  and  his  entrance  to  the 
kitchen  evidently  interrupted  a  colloquy  of  some  kind. 
The  hired  men  were  still  at  table.  They  looked  down 
at  their  plates  and  said  nothing.  Kurt  left  the  sitting- 
room  door  open,  and,  turning,  he  asked  Martha  if  his 
father  had  been  to  dinner. 

"No,  an'  what's  more,  when  I  called  he  takes  to  roarin' 
like  a  mad  bull,"  replied  the  woman. 

Kurt  crossed  the  sitting-room  to  knock  upon  his  father's 
door.  The  reply  forthcoming  did  justify  the  old  woman's 
comparison.  It  certainly  caused  the  hired  men  to  evacuate 
the  kitchen  with  alacrity.  Old  Chris  Dorn's  roar  at  his 
son  was  a  German  roar,  which  did  not  soothe  the  young 
man's  rising  temper.  Of  late  the  father  had  taken  al 
together  to  speaking  German.  He  had  never  spoken 
English  well.  And  Kurt  was  rapidly  approaching  the 
point  where  he  would  not  speak  German.  A  deadlock 

28 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

was  in  sight,  and  Kurt  grimly  prepared  to  meet  it.     He 
pounded  on  the  locked  door. 

"The  men  are  going  to  lay  off,"  he  called. 

"Who  runs  this  farm?"  was  the  thundered  reply. 

"The  I.  W.  W.  is  going  to  run  it  if  you  sulk  indoors  as 
you  have  done  lately,"  yelled  Kurt.  He  thought  that 
would  fetch  his  father  stamping  out,  but  he  had  reckoned 
falsely.  There  was  no  further  sound.  Leaving  the  room 
in  high  dudgeon,  Kurt  hurried  out  to  catch  the  hired  men 
near  at  hand  and  to  order  them  back  to  work.  They 
trudged  off  surlily  toward  the  barn. 

Then  Kurt  went  on  to  search  for  the  I.  W.  W.  men,  and 
after  looking  up  and  down  the  road,  and  all  around,  he  at 
length  found  them  behind  an  old  strawstack.  They  were 
comfortably  sitting  down,  backs  to  the  straw,  eating  a 
substantial  lunch.  Kurt  was  angry  and  did  not  care. 
His  appearance,  however,  did  not  feaze  the  strangers. 
One  of  them,  an  American,  was  a  man  of  about  thirty 
years,  clean-shaven,  square-jawed,  with  light,  steely, 
secretive  gray  eyes,  and  a  look  of  intelligence  and  assurance 
that  did  not  harmonize  with  his  motley  garb.  His  com 
panion  was  a  foreigner,  small  of  stature,  with  eyes  like  a 
ferret  and  deep  pits  in  his  sallow  face. 

"Do  you  know  you're  trespassing?"  demanded  Kurt. 

"You  grudge  us  a  little  shade,  eh,  even  to  eat  a  bite?" 
eaid  the  American.  He  wrapped  a  paper  round  his  lunch 
and  leisurely  rose,  to  fasten  penetrating  eyes  upon  the 
young  man.  ' '  That 's  what  I  heard  about  you  rich  farmers 
of  the  Bend." 

"What  business  have  you  coming  here?"  queried  Kurt, 
with  sharp  heat.  "You  sneak  out  of  sight  of  the  farmers. 
You  trespass  to  get  at  our  men  and  with  a  lot  of  lies  and 
guff  you  make  them  discontented  with  their  jobs.  I'll 
fire  these  men  just  for  listening  to  you." 

"Mister  Dorn,  we  want  you  to  fire  them.  That's  my 
business  out  here,"  replied  the  American. 

"Who  are  you,  anyway?" 

29 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"That's  my  business,  too." 

Kurt  passed  from  hot  to  cold.  He  could  not  miss  the 
antagonism  of  this  man,  a  bold  and  menacing  attitude. 

"My  foreman  says  your  name's  Glidden,"  went  on 
Kurt,  cooler  this  time,  "and  that  you're  talking  I.  W.  W. 
as  if  you  were  one  of  its  leaders;  that  you  don't  want  a 
job;  that  you've  got  a  wad  of  money;  that  you  coax,  then 
threaten;  that  you've  intimidated  three  of  our  hands." 

"Your  Jerry's  a  marked  man,"  said  Glidden,  shortly. 

"You  impudent  scoundrel!"  exclaimed  Kurt.  "Now 
you  listen  to  this.  You're  the  first  I.  W.  W.  man  I've  met. 
You  look  and  talk  like  an  American.  But  if  you  are 
American  you're  a  traitor.  We've  a  war  to  fight!  War 
with  a  powerful  country!  Germany!  And  you  come 
spreading  discontent  in  the  wheat-fields,  .  .  .  when  wheat 
means  life!  .  .  .  Get  out  of  here  before  I — " 

"We'll  mark  you,  too,  Mister  Dorn,  and  your  wheat- 
fields,"  snapped  Glidden. 

With  one  swift  lunge  Kurt  knocked  the  man  flat  and 
then  leaped  to  stand  over  him,  watching  for  a  move  to 
draw  a  weapon.  The  little  foreigner  slunk  back  out  of 
reach. 

"I'll  start  a  little  marking  myself,"  grimly  said  Kurt. 
"Get  up!" 

Slowly  Glidden  moved  from  elbow  to  knees,  and  then  to 
his  feet.  His  cheek  was  puffing  out  and  his  nose  was 
bleeding.  The  light-gray  eyes  were  lurid. 

"That's  for  your  I.  W.  W.S"  declared  Kurt.  "The 
first  rule  of  your  I.  W.  W.  is  to  abolish  capital,  hey?" 

Kurt  had  not  intended  to  say  that.  It  slipped  out  in 
his  fury.  But  the  effect  was  striking.  Glidden  gave  a 
violent  start  and  his  face  turned  white.  Abruptly  he 
hurried  away.  His  companion  shuffled  after  him.  Kurt 
stared  at  them,  thinking  the  while  that  if  he  had  needed 
any  proof  of  the  crookedness  of  the  I.  W.  W.  he  had 
seen  it  in  .Glidden's  guilty  face.  The  man  had  been  sud 
denly  frightened,  and  surprise,  too,  had  been  prominent 

30 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

in  his  countenance.  Then  Kurt  remembered  how  Ander 
son  had  intimated  that  the  secrets  of  the  I.  W.  W.  had  been 
long  hidden.  Kurt,  keen  and  quick  in  his  sensibilities, 
divined  that  there  was  something  powerful  back  of  this 
Glidden's  cunning  and  assurance.  Could  it  be  only  the 
power  of  a  new  labor  organization?  That  might  well  be 
great,  but  the  idea  did  not  convince  Kurt.  During  a 
hurried  and  tremendous  preparation  by  the  government 
for  war,  any  disorder  such  as  menaced  the  country  would 
be  little  short  of  a  calamity.  It  might  turn  out  a  fatality. 
This  so-called  labor  union  intended  to  take  advantage  of  a 
crisis  to  further  its  own  ends.  Yet  even  so,  that  fact  did 
not  wholly  explain  Glidden  and  his  subtlety.  Some  name 
less  force  loomed  dark  and  sinister  back  of  Glidden's 
meaning,  and  it  was  not  peril  to  the  wheatlands  of  the 
Northwest  alone. 

Like  a  huge  dog  Kurt  shook  himself  and  launched  into 
action.  There  were  sense  and  pleasure  in  muscular  ac 
tivity,  and  it  lessened  the  habit  of  worry.  Soon  he  as 
certained  that  only  Morgan  had  returned  to  work  in 
the  fields.  Andrew  and  Jansen  were  nowhere  to  be  seen. 
Jansen  had  left  four  horses  hitched  to  a  harrow.  Kurt 
went  out  to  take  up  the  work  thus  abandoned. 

It  was  a  long  field,  and  if  he  had  earned  a  dollar  for 
every  time  he  had  traversed  its  length,  during  the  last  ten 
years,  he  would  have  been  a  rich  man.  He  could  have 
walked  it  blindfolded.  It  was  fallow  ground,  already 
plowed,  disked,  rolled,  and  now  the  last  stage  was  to 
harrow  it,  loosening  the  soil,  conserving  the  moisture. 

Morgan,  far  to  the  other  side  of  this  section,  had  the 
better  of  the  job,  for  his  harrow  was  a  new  machine  and  he 
could  ride  while  driving  the  horses.  But  Kurt,  using  an 
old  harrow,  had  to  walk.  The  four  big  horses  plodded  at  a 
gait  that  made  Kurt  step  out  to  keep  up  with  them.  To 
keep  up,  to  drive  a  straight  line,  to  hold  back  on  the  reins, 
was  labor  for  a  man.  It  spoke  well  for  Kurt  that  he  had 
followed  that  old  harrow  hundreds  of  miles,  that  he  could 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

stand  the  strain,  that  he  loved  both  the  physical  sense  and 
the  spiritual  meaning  of  the  toil. 

Driving  west,  he  faced  a  wind  laden  with  dust  as  dry 
as  powder.  At  every  sheeted  cloud,  whipping  back  from 
the  hoofs  of  the  horses  and  the  steel  spikes  of  the  harrow, 
he  had  to  bat  his  eyes  to  keep  from  being  blinded.  The 
smell  of  dust  clogged  his  nostrils.  As  soon  as  he  began 
to  sweat  under  the  hot  sun  the  dust  caked  on  his  face, 
itching,  stinging,  burning.  There  was  dust  between  his 
teeth. 

Driving  back  east  was  a  relief.  The  wind  whipped  the 
dust  away  from  him.  And  he  could  catch  the  fragrance  of 
the  newly  turned  soil.  How  brown  and  clean  and  earthy 
it  looked!  Where  the  harrow  had  cut  and  ridged,  the 
soil  did  not  look  thirsty  and  parched.  But  that  which  was 
unharrowed  cried  out  for  rain.  No  cloud  in  the  hot  sky, 
except  the  yellow  clouds  of  dust! 

On  that  trip  east  across  the  field,  which  faced  the  road, 
Dorn  saw  pedestrians  in  twos  and  threes  passing  by. 
Once  he  was  hailed,  but  made  no  answer.  He  would  not 
have  been  surprised  to  see  a  crowd,  yet  travelers  were 
scarce  in  that  region.  The  sight  of  these  men,  some  of 
them  carrying  bags  and  satchels,  was  disturbing  to  the 
young  farmer.  Where  were  they  going?  All  appeared 
outward  bound  toward  the  river.  They  came,  of  course, 
from  the  little  towns,  the  railroads,  and  the  cities.  At  this 
season,  with  harvest-time  near  at  hand,  it  had  been  in 
former  years  no  unusual  sight  to  see  strings  of  laborers 
passing  by.  But  this  year  they  came  earlier,  and  in  greater 
numbers. 

With  the  wind  in  his  face,  however,  Dorn  saw  nothing 
but  the  horses  and  the  brown  line  ahead,  and  half  the  time 
they  were  wholly  obscured  in  yellow  dust.  He  began 
thinking  about  Lenore  Anderson,  just  pondering  that 
strange,  steady  look  of  a  girl's  eyes;  and  then  he  did  not 
mind  the  dust  or  heat  or  distance.  Never  could  he;  be 
cheated  of  his  thoughts.  And  those  of  her,  even  the 

32 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

painful  ones,  gave  birth  to  a  comfort  that  he  knew  must 
abide  with  him  henceforth  on  lonely  labors  such  as  this, 
perhaps  in  the  lonelier  watches  of  a  soldier's  duty.  She 
had  been  curious,  aloof,  then  sympathetic;  she  had 
studied  his  face;  she  had  been  an  eloquent-eyed  listener 
to  his  discourse  on  wheat.  But  she  had  not  guessed  his 
secret.  Not  until  her  last  look — strange,  deep,  potent — 
had  he  guessed  that  secret  himself. 

So,  with  mind  both  busy  and  absent,  Kurt  Dorn  har- 
howed  the  fallow  ground  abandoned  by  his  men ;  and  when 
the  day  was  done,  with  the  sun  setting  hot  and  coppery 
beyond  the  dim,  dark  ranges,  he  guided  the  tired  horses 
homeward  and  plodded  back  of  them,  weary  and  spent. 

He  was  to  learn  from  Morgan,  at  the  stables,  that  the 
old  man  had  discharged  both  Andrew  and  Jansen.  And 
Jansen,  liberating  some  newly  assimilated  poison,  had 
threatened  revenge.  He  would  see  that  any  hired  men 
would  learn  a  thing  or  two,  so  that  they  would  not  sign 
up  with  Chris  Dorn.  In  a  fury  the  old  man  had  driven 
Jansen  out  into  the  road. 

Sober  and  moody,  Kurt  put  the  horses  away,  and,  wash 
ing  the  dust  grime  from  sunburnt  face  and  hands,  ho 
went  to  his  little  attic  room,  where  he  changed  his  damp, 
and  sweaty  clothes.  Then  he  went  down  to  supper  with 
mind  made  up  to  be  lenient  and  silent  with  his  old  and 
sorely  tried  father. 

Chris  Dorn  sat  in  the  light  of  the  kitchen  lamps.  He  way 
a  huge  man  with  a  great,  round,  bullet-shaped  head  and  a> 
shock  of  gray  hair  and  bristling,  grizzled  beard.  Hiw 
face  was  broad,  heavy,  and  seemed  sodden  with  dark, 
brooding  thought.  His  eyes,  under  bushy  brows,  wer»v 
pale  gleams  of  fire.  He  looked  immovable  as  to  both 
bulk  and  will. 

Never  before  had  Kurt  Dorn  so  acutely  felt  the  fixed, 
contrary,  ruthless  nature  of  his  parent.  Never  had  the 
distance  between  them  seemed  so  great.  Kurt  shivered 
and  sighed  at  once.  Then,  being  hungry,  he  fell  to  eating 

33 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

in  silence.     Presently  the  old  man  shoved  his  plate  back, 
and,  wiping  his  face,  he  growled,  in  German: 

"I  discharged  Andrew  and  Jansen." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  replied  Kurt.  "It  wasn't  good  judg 
ment.  What  '11  we  do  for  hands?" 

"I'll  hire  more.     Men  are  coming  for  the  harvest." 

"But  they  all  belong  to  the  I.  W.  W.,"  protested  Kurt. 

"And  what's  that?" 

In  scarcely  subdued  wrath  Kurt  described  in  detail, 
and  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge,  what  the  I.  W.  W.  was, 
and  he  ended  by  declaring  the  organization  treacherous  to 
the  United  States. 

"How's  that?"  asked  old  Dorn,  gruffly. 

Kurt  was  actually  afraid  to  tell  his  father,  who  never 
read  newspapers,  who  knew  little  of  what  was  going  on, 
that  if  the  Allies  were  to  win  the  war  it  was  wheat  that 
would  be  the  greatest  factor.  Instead  of  that  he  said  if 
the  I.  W.  W.  inaugurated  strikes  and  disorder  in  the  North 
west  it  would  embarrass  the  government. 

"Then  I'll  hire  I.  W.  W.  men,"  said  old  Dorn. 

Kurt  battled  against  a  rising  temper.  This  blind  old 
man  was  his  father. 

"But  I'll  not  have  I.  W.  W.  men  on  the  farm,"  retorted 
Kurt.  "  I  just  punched  one  I.  W.  W.  solicitor." 

"I'll  run  this  farm.  If  you  don't  like  my  way  you  can 
leave,"  darkly  asserted  the  father. 

Kurt  fell  back  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  the  turgid, 
bulging  forehead  and  hard  eyes  before  him.  What  could 
be  behind  them?  Had  the  war  brought  out  a  twist  in 
his  father's  brain?  Why  were  Germans  so  impossible? 

"My  Heavens!  father,  would  you  turn  me  out  of  my 
home  because  we  disagree?"  he  asked,  desperately. 

"In  my  country  sons  obey  their  fathers  or  they  go  out 
for  themselves." 

"I've  not  been  a  disobedient  son,"  declared  Kurt. 
"And  here  in  America  sons  have  more  freedom — more 
say." 

34 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"America  has  no  sense  of  family  life — no  honest  goveriv- 
ment .  I  hate  the  country. ' ' 

A  ball  of  fire  seemed  to  burst  in  Kurt. 

"That  kind  of  talk  infuriates  me,"  he  blazed,  "f 
don't  care  if  you  are  my  father.  Why  in  the  hell  did  you 
come  to  America?  Why  did  you  stay?  Why  did  you 
marry  my  mother — an  American  woman?  .  .  .  That's 
rot — just  spiteful  rot !  I've  heard  you  tell  what  life  was  in 
Europe  when  you  were  a  boy.  You  ran  off.  You  stayed 
in  this  country  because  it  was  a  better  country  than  yours. 
.  .  .  Fifty  years  you've  been  in  America — many  years 
on  this  farm.  And  you  love  this  land.  .  .  .  My  God! 
father,  can't  you  and  men  like  you  see  the  truth?'* 

"Aye,  I  can,"  gloomily  replied  the  old  man.  "The 
truth  is  we'll  lose  the  land.  That  greedy  Anderson  will 
drive  me  off." 

"He  will  not.  He's  fine — generous,"  asserted  Kurt,, 
earnestly.  "All  he  wanted  was  to  see  the  prospects  of  the 
harvest,  and  perhaps  to  help  you.  Anderson  has  not  had 
interest  on  his  money  for  three  years.  I'll  bet  he's  paid 
interest  demanded  by  the  other  stockholders  in  that 
bank  you  borrowed  from.  Why,  he's  our  friend!" 

"Aye,  and  I  see  more,"  boomed  the  father.  "He 
fetched  his  lass  up  here  to  make  eyes  at  my  son.  I 
saw  her — the  sly  wench!  .  .  .  Boy,  you'll  not  marry 
her!" 

Kurt  choked  back  his  mounting  rage. 

"Certainly  I  never  will,"  he  said,  bitterly.  "But  2 
would  if  she'd  have  me." 

"What!"  thundered  Dorn,  his  white  locks  standing  up 
and  shaking  like  the  mane  of  a  lion.  "That  wheat 
banker's  daughter!  Never!  I  forbid  it.  You  shall  not 
marry  any  American  girl." 

"Father,  this  is  idle,  foolish  rant,"  cried  Kurt,  with  a 
high  warning  note  in  his  voice.  "I've  no  idea  of  marry 
ing.  .  .  .  But  if  I  had  one — whom  else  could  I  marry 
except  an  American  girl?" 

35 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"I'll  sell  the  wheat— the  land.  We'll  go  back  to 
Germany!" 

That  was  maddening  to  Kurt.  He  sprang  up,  sending 
dishes  to  the  floor  with  a  crash.  He  bent  over  to  pound  the 
table  with  a  fist.  Violent  speech  choked  him  and  he  felt 
a  cold,  tight  blanching  of  his  face. 

11  Listen !"  he  rang  out.  "  If  I  go  to  Germany  it  '11  be  as 
a  soldier — to  kill  Germans!  ...  I'm  done — I'm  through 
with  the  very  name.  .  .  .  Listen  to  the  last  words  I'll 
ever  speak  to  you  in  German — the  last!  To  hell  with 
Germany!" 

Then  Kurt  plunged,  blind  in  his  passion,  out  of  the  door 
into  the  night.  And  as  he  went  he  heard  his  father  cry 
out,  brokenly: 

"My  son!     Oh,  my  son!" 

The  night  was  dark  and  cool.  A  faint  wind  blew  across 
the  hills,  and  it  was  dry,  redolent,  sweet.  The  sky  seemed 
an  endless  curving  canopy  of  dark  blue  blazing  with 
myriads  of  stars. 

Kurt  staggered  out  of  the  yard,  down  along  the  edge  of  a 
wheat-field,  to  one  of  the  strawstacks,  and  there  he  flung 
himself  down  in  an  agony. 

' '  Oh,  I 'm  ruined — mined !"  he  moaned.  * '  The  break — 
has  come!  .  .  .  Poor  old  dad!" 

He  leaned  there  against  the  straw,  shaking  and  throb 
bing,  with  a  cold  perspiration  bathing  face  and  body. 
Even  the  palms  of  his  hands  were  wet.  A  terrible  fit 
of  anger  was  beginning  to  loose  its  hold  upon  him.  His 
breathing  was  labored  in  gasps  and  sobs.  Unutterable 
stupidity  of  his  father — horrible  cruelty  of  his  position! 
What  had  he  ever  done  in  all  his  life  to  suffer  under  such  a 
curse?  Yet  almost  he  clung  to  his  wrath,  for  it  had  been 
righteous.  That  thing,  that  infernal  twist  in  the  brain, 
that  was  what  was  wrong  with  his  father.  His  father  who 
had  been  fifty  years  in  the  United  States!  How  simple, 
then,  to  understand  what  was  wrong  with  Germany. 

"By  God!    I  am — American!"  he  panted,  and  it  was  as 

36 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

if  he  called  to  the  grave  of  his  mother,  over  there  on  the 
dark,  windy  hill. 

That  tremendous  uprising  of  his  passion  had  been  a 
vortex,  an  end,  a  decision.  And  he  realized  that  even 
to  that  hour  there  had  been  a  drag  in  his  blood.  It  was 
over  now.  The  hell  was  done  with.  His  soul  was  free. 
This  weak,  quaking  body  of  his  housed  his  tainted  blood 
and  the  emotions  of  his  heart,  but  it  could  not  control  his 
mind,  his  will.  Beat  by  beat  the  helpless  fury  in  him 
subsided,  and  then  he  fell  back  and  lay  still  for  a  long 
time,  eyes  shut,  relaxed  and  still. 

A  hound  bayed  mournfully;  the  insects  chirped  low 
incessantly;  the  night  wind  rustled  the  silken  heads  of 
wheat. 

After  a  while  the  young  man  sat  up  and  looked  at  the 
heavens,  at  the  twinkling  white  stars,  and  then  away 
across  the  shadows  of  round  hills  in  the  dusk.  How 
lonely,  sad,  intelligible,  and  yet  mystic  the  night  and  the 
scene ! 

What  came  to  him  then  was  revealing,  uplifting — a 
source  of  strength  to  go  on.  He  was  not  to  blame  for 
what  had  happened;  he  could  not  change  the  future.  He- 
had  a  choice  between  playing  the  part  of  a  man  or  that 
of  a  coward,  and  he  had  to  choose  the  former.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  spirit  beside  him — the  spirit  of  his  mother  or 
of  some  one  who  loved  him  and  who  would  have  him  be 
true  to  an  ideal,  and,  if  needful,  die  for  it.  No  night  in  all 
his  life  before  had  been  like  this  one.  The  dreaming  hills 
with  their  precious  rustling  wheat  meant  more  than  even 
a  spirit  could  tell.  Where  had  the  wheat  come  from 
that  had  seeded  these  fields?  Whence  the  first  and 
original  seeds,  and  where  were  the  sowers?  Back  in 
the  ages!  The  stars,  the  night,  the  dark  blue  of  heaven 
hid  the  secret  in  their  impenetrableness.  Beyond  them 
surely  was  the  answer,  and  perhaps  peace. 

Material  things — life,  success — such  as  had  inspired 
Kurt  Dorn,  on  this  calm  night  lost  their  significance  and 

37 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

were  seen  clearly.  They  could  not  last.  But  the  wheat 
there,  the  hills,  the  stars — they  would  go  on  with  their 
task.  Passion  was  the  dominant  side  of  a  man  declaring 
itself,  and  that  was  a  matter  of  inheritance.  But  self- 
sacrifice,  with  its  mercy,  its  succor,  its  seed  like  the  wheat, 
was  as  infinite  as  the  stars.  He  had  long  made  up  his 
mind,  yet  that  had  not  given  him  absolute  restraint.  The 
world  was  full  of  little  men,  but  he  refused  to  stay  little. 
This  war  that  had  come  between  him  and  his  father  had 
been  bred  of  the  fumes  of  self-centered  minds,  turned 
with  an  infantile  fatality  to  greedy  desires.  His  poor  old 
blinded  father  could  be  excused  and  forgiven.  There  were 
other  old  men,  sick,  crippled,  idle,  who  must  suffer  pain, 
but  whose  pain  could  be  lightened.  There  were  babies, 
children,  women,  who  must  suffer  for  the  sins  of  men, 
but  that  suffering  need  no  longer  be,  if  men  became 
honest  and  true. 

His  sudden  up-flashing  love  had  a  few  hours  back  seemed 
a  calamity.  But  out  there  beside  the  whispering  wheat, 
under  the , passionless  stars,  in  the  dreaming  night,  it  had 
turned  into  a  blessing.  He  asked  nothing  but  to  serve. 
To  serve  her,  his  country,  the  future !  All  at  once  he  who 
had  always  yearned  for  something  unattainable  had 
greatness  thrust  upon  him.  His  tragical  situation  had 
evoked  a  spirit  from  the  gods. 

To  kiss  that  blue-eyed  girl's  sweet  lips  would  be  a  sum 
of  joy,  earthly,  all-satisfying,  precious.  The  man  in 
him  trembled  all  over  at  the  daring  thought.  He  might 
revel  in  such  dreams,  and  surrender  to  them,  since  she 
would  never  know,  but  the  divinity  he  sensed  there  in  the 
presence  of  those  stars  did  not  dwell  on  a  woman's  lips. 
Kisses  were  for  the  present,  the  all  too  fleeting  present; 
and  he  had  to  concern  himself  with  what  he  might  do  for 
one  girl's  future.  It  was  exquisitely  sad  and  sweet  to 
put  it  that  way,  though  Kurt  knew  that  if  he  had  never 
seen  Lenore  Anderson  he  would  have  gone  to  war  just  the 
same.  He  was  not  making  an  abstract  sacrifice. 

38 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

The  wheat-fields  rolling  before  him,  every  clod  of  which 
had  been  pressed  by  his  bare  feet  as  a  boy;  the  father 
whose  changeless  blood  had  sickened  at  the  son  of  his 
loins ;  the  life  of  hope,  freedom,  of  action,  of  achievement, 
of  wonderful  possibility — these  seemed  lost  to  Kurt  Dornf 
a  necessary  renunciation  when  he  yielded  to  the  call  of  war. 

But  no  loss,  no  sting  of  bullet  or  bayonet,  no  torturing 
victory  of  approaching  death,  could  balance  in  the  scale 
against  the  thought  of  a  picture  of  one  American  girl — 
blue-eyed,  red-lipped,  golden-haired — as  she  stepped 
somewhere  in  the  future,  down  a  summer  lane  or  through 
a  blossoming  orchard,  on  soil  that  was  free, 


CHAPTER  IV 

•T^OWARD  the  end  of  July  eastern  Washington 
I  sweltered  under  the  most  torrid  spell  of  heat  on 
record.  It  was  a  dry,  high  country,  noted  for  an  equable 
climate,  with  cool  summers  and  mild  winters.  And  this 
•unprecedented  wave  would  have  been  unbearable  had  not 
the  atmosphere  been  free  from  humidity. 

The  haze  of  heat  seemed  like  a  pall  of  thin  smoke  from 
distant  forest  fires.     The  sun  rose,  a  great,  pale-red  ball, 
hot  at  sunrise,  and  it  soared  blazing-white  at  noon,  to 
burn  slowly  westward  through  a  cloudless,  coppery  sky, 
at  last  to  set  sullen  and  crimson  over  the  ranges. 

Spokane,  being  the  only  center  of  iron,  steel,  brick,  and 
masonry  in  this  area,  resembled  a  city  of  furnaces.  Busi 
ness  was  slack.  The  asphalt  of  the  streets  left  clean 
imprints  of  a  pedestrian's  feet;  bits  of  newspaper  stuck 
fast  to  the  hot  tar.  Down  by  the  gorge,  where  the  great 
green  river  made  its  magnificent  plunges  over  the  falls, 
people  congregated,  tarried,  and  were  loath  to  leave,  for 
here  the  blowing  mist  and  the  air  set  into  motion  by  the 
falling  water  created  a  temperature  that  was  relief. 

Citizens  talked  of  the  protracted  hot  spell,  of  the  blacted 
crops,  of  an  almost  sure  disaster  to  the  wheat-fields,  and  of 
the  activities  of  the  I.  W.  W.  Even  the  war,  for  the  time 
being,  gave  place  to  the  nearer  calamities  impending. 

Montana  had  taken  drastic  measures  against  the  in 
vading  I.  W.  W.  The  Governor  of  Idaho  had  sent  word  to 
the  camps  of  the  organization  that  they  had  five  days  to 
leave  that  state.  Spokane  was  awakening  to  the  menace  of 
hordes  of  strange,  idle  men  who  came  in  on  the  westbound 
freight-trains.  The  railroads  had  been  unable  to  handle 
the  situation.  They  were  being  hard  put  to  it  to  run 
trains  at  all.  The  train  crews  that  refused  to  join  the 

40 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

I.  W.  W.  had  been  threatened,  beaten,  shot  at,  and  other 
wise  intimidated. 

The  Chamber  of  Commerce  sent  an  imperative  appeal 
to  representative  wheat-raisers,  ranchers,  lumbermen, 
farmers,  and  bade  them  come  to  Spokane  to  discuss  the 
situation.  They  met  at  the  Hotel  Davenport,  where 
luncheon  was  served  in  one  of  the  magnificently  appointed 
dining-halls  of  that  most  splendid  hotel  in  the  West. 

The  lion  of  this  group  of  Spokane  capitalists  was  Riesin* 
berg,  a  man  of  German  forebears,  but  all  American  in  his 
sympathies,  with  a  son  already  in  the  army.  Riesinberg 
was  president  of  a  city  bank  and  of  the  Chamber  of  Com 
merce.  His  first  words  to  the  large  assembly  of  clean-cut/ 
square-jawed,  intent-eyed  Westerners  were:  "Gentlemen^ 
we  are  here  to  discuss  the  most  threatening  and  unfortu 
nate  situation  the  Northwest  was  ever  called  upon  to 
meet. ' '  His  address  was  not  long,  but  it  was  stirring.  The 
Chamber  of  Commerce  could  provide  unlimited  means, 
could  influence  and  control  the  state  government;  but  it 
was  from  the  visitors  invited  to  this  meeting,  the  men 
of  the  outlying  districts  which  were  threatened,  that  objec 
tive  proofs  must  come  and  the  best  methods  of  procedure. 

The  first  facts  to  come  out  were  that  many  crops  were 
ruined  already,  but,  owing  to  the  increased  acreage  that 
year,  a  fair  yield  was  expected;  that  wheat  in  the  Bend 
would  be  a  failure,  though  some  farmers  here  and  there 
would  harvest  well;  that  the  lumber  districts  were  not 
operating,  on  account  of  the  I.  W.  W. 

Then  it  was  that  the  organization  of  men  who  called 
themselves  the  Industrial  Workers  of  the  World  drew  trie 
absorbed  attention  of  the  meeting.  Depredations  already 
committed  stunned  the  members  of  the  Chamber  of 
Commerce. 

President  Riesinberg  called  upon  Beardsley,  a  prominent 
and  intelligent  rancher  of  the  southern  wheat-belt.  Beards- 
ley  said : 

'"It  is  difficult  to  speak  with  any  moderation  of  the  out- 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

rageous  eruption  of  the  I.  W.  W.  It  is  nothing  less  than 
rebellion,  and  the  most  effective  means  of  suppressing 
rebellion  is  to  apply  a  little  of  that  'direct  action'  which 
is  the  favorite  diversion  of  the  I.  W.  W.'s. 

"The  I.  W.  W.  do  not  intend  to  accomplish  their 
treacherous  aims  by  anything  so  feeble  as  speech;  they 
scorn  the  ballot-box.  They  are  against  the  war,  and  their 
method  of  making  known  their  protest  is  by  burning  our 
grain,  destroying  our  lumber,  and  blowing  up  freight- 
trains.  They  seek  to  make  converts  not  by  argument, 
but  by  threats  and  intimidation. 

"We  read  that  Western  towns  are  seeking  to  deport 
these  rebels.  In  the  old  days  we  can  imagine  more 
drastic  measures  would  have  been  taken.  The  Westerners 
were  handy  with  the  rope  and  the  gun  in  those  days.  We 
are  not  counseling  lynch  law,  but  we  think  deportation  is 
too  mild  a  punishment. 

"We  are  too  'civilized'  to  apply  the  old  Roman  law, 
*  Spare  the  conquered  and  extirpate  the  rebels/  but  at 
least  we  could  intern  them.  The  British  have  found  it 
practicable  to  put  German  prisoners  to  work  at  useful 
employment.  Why  couldn't  we  do  the  same  with  our 
rebel  I.  W.  W.'s?" 

Jones,  a  farmer  from  the  Yakima  Valley,  told  that  busi 
ness  men,  housewives,  professional  men,  and  high-school 
boys  and  girls  would  help  to  save  the  crop  of  Washing 
ton  to  the  nation  in  case  of  labor  trouble.  Steps  already 
had  been  taken  to  mobilize  workers  in  stores,  offices,  and 
homes  for  work  in  the  orchards  and  grain-fields,  should 
ths  I.  W.  W.  situation  seriously  threaten  harvests. 

Pledges  to  go  into  the  hay  or  grain  fields  or  the  orchards, 
with  a  statement  of  the  number  of  days  they  were  willing 
to  work,  had  been  signed  by  virtually  all  the  men  in  North 
Yakima. 

Helmar,  lumberman  from  the  Blue  Mountains,  spoke 
feelingly;  he  said: 

"My  company  is  the  owner  of  a  considerable  amount  of 

42 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

timbered  lands  and  timber  purchased  from  the  state  and 
from  individuals.  We  have  been  engaged  in  logging  that 
land  until  our  operations  have  been  stopped  and  our  busi 
ness  paralyzed  by  an  organization  which  calls  itself  the 
Industrial  Workers  of  the  World,  and  by  members  of  that 
organization,  and  other  lawless  persons  acting  in  sympathy 
with  them. 

"Our  employees  have  been  threatened  with  physical 
violence  and  death. 

"Our  works  are  picketed  by  individuals  who  camp  out 
in  the  forests  and  who  intimidate  and  threaten  our 
employees. 

"Open  threats  have  been  made  that  our  works,  our  logs, 
and  our  timber  will  all  be  burned. 

"Sabotage  is  publicly  preached  in  the  meetings,  and  in 
the  literature  of  the  organization  it  is  advised  and  upheld. 

"The  open  boast  is  made  that  the  lumbering  industry, 
with  all  other  industry,  will  be  paralyzed  by  this  organi 
zation,  by  the  destruction  of  property  used  in  industry  and 
by  the  intimidation  of  laborers  who  are  willing  to  work. 

"A  real  and  present  danger  to  the  property  of  my  com 
pany  exists.  Unless  protection  is  given  to  us  it  will 
probably  be  burned  and  destroyed.  Our  lawful  operations 
cannot  be  conducted  because  laborers  who  are  willing  to 
work  are  fearful  of  their  lives  and  are  subject  to  abuse, 
threats,  and  violence.  Our  camps,  when  in  operation, 
are  visited  by  individuals  belonging  to  the  said  organi 
zation,  and  the  men  peaceably  engaged  in  them  threatened 
with  death  if  they  do  not  cease  work.  All  sorts  of  injury 
to  property  by  the  driving  of  spikes  in  logs,  the  destruction 
of  logs,  and  other  similar  acts  are  encouraged  and  recom 
mended. 

"As  I  pointed  out  to  the  sheriff  of  our  county,  the  season 
is  a  very  dry  one  and  the  woods  are  and  will  be,  unless 
rain  comes,  in  danger  of  disastrous  fires.  The  organization 
and  its  members  have  openly  and  repeatedly  asserted  that 
they  will  burn  the  logs  in  the  woods  and  burn  the  forests 

4  43 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

of  this  company  and  other  timber-holders  before  they  will 
permit  logging  operations  to  continue. 

"Many  individuals  belonging  to  the  organization  are 
camped  in  the  open  in  the  timbered  country,  and  their 
very  presence  is  a  fire  menace.  They  are  engaged  in  no 
business  except  to  interfere  with  the  industry  and  to 
interfere  with  the  logging  of  this  company  and  others  who 
engaged  in  the  logging  business. 

"We  have  done  what  we  could  in  a  lawful  manner  to 
continue  our  operations  and  to  protect  our  employees. 
We  are  now  helpless,  and  place  the  responsibility  for  the 
protection  of  our  property  and  the  protection  of  our 
employees  upon  the  board  of  county  commissioners  and 
upon  the  officers  of  the  county." 

Next  President  Riesinberg  called  upon  a  young  reporter 
to  read  paragraphs  of  an  I.  W.  W.  speech  he  had  heard 
made  to  a  crowd  of  three  hundred  workmen.  It  was 
significant  that  several  members  of  the  Chamber  of  Com 
merce  called  for  a  certain  paragraph  to  be  reread.  It 
was  this: 

"If  you  working-men  could  only  stand  together  you 
could  do  in  this  country  what  has  been  done  in  Russia," 
declared  the  I.  W.  W.  orator.  "You  know  what  the 
working-men  did  there  to  the  slimy  curs,  the  gunmen, 
and  the  stool-pigeons  of  the  capitalistic  class.  They 
bumped  them  off.  They  sent  them  up  to  say,  'Good 
morning,  Jesus.' ' 

After  a  moment  of  muttering  and  another  silence  trie 
president  again  addressed  the  meeting: 

"Gentlemen,  we  have  Anderson  of  Golden  Valley  with 
us  to-day.  If  there  are  any  of  you  present  who  do  not 
know  him,  you  surely  have  heard  of  him.  His  people 
were  pioneers.  He  was  born  in  Washington.  He  is  a 
f;ype  of  the  men  who  have  made  the  Northwest.  He 
ibught  the  Indians  in  early  days  and  packed  a  gun  for  the 
outlaws — and  to-day,  gentlemen,  he  owns  a  farm  as  big  as 
Spokane  County.  We  want  to  hear  from  him." 

44 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

When  Anderson  rose  to  reply  it  was  seen  that  he  was 
pale  and  somber.  Slowly  he  gazed  at  the  assembly  of 
waiting  men,  bowed;  then  he  began,  impressively: 

"Gentlemen  an'  friends,  I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  throw  a 
bomb  into  this  here  camp-fire  talk.  But  I've  got  to. 
You're  all  talkin'  I.  W.  W.  Facts  have  been  told  showin' 
a  strange  an'  sudden  growth  of  this  here  four-flush  labor 
union.  We've  had  dealin's  with  them  for  several  years. 
But  this  year  it's  different.  .  .  .  All  at  once  they've 
multiplied  and  strengthened.  There's  somethin'  behind 
them.  A  big  unseen  hand  is  stackin'  the  deck.  .  .  .  An', 
countrymen,  that  tremendous  power  is  German  gold!" 

Anderson's  deep  voice  rang  like  a  bell.  His  hearers 
sat  perfectly  silent.  No  surprise  showed,  but  faces  grew 
set  and  hard.  After  a  pause  of  suspense,  in  which  his 
denunciation  had  time  to  sink  in,  Anderson  resumed : 

"A  few  weeks  ago  a  young  man,  a  stranger,  came  to 
me  an*  asked  for  a  job.  He  could  do  anythin',  he  said. 
An'  I  hired  him  to  drive  my  car.  But  he  wasn't  much  of  a 
driver.  We  went  up  in  the  Bend  country  one  day,  an* 
on  that  trip  I  got  suspicious  of  him.  I  caught  him  talkin' 
to  what  I  reckoned  was  t.  W.  W.  men.  An'  then,  back 
home  again,  I  watched  him  an'  kept  my  ears  open.  It 
didn't  take  long  for  me  to  find  discontent  among  my 
farm-hands.  I  hire  about  a  hundred  hands  on  my  ranches 
durin'  the  long  off  season,  an'  when  harvest  comes  round  a 
good  many  more.  All  I  can  get,  in  fact.  .  .  .  Well,  I 
found  my  hands  quittin'  me,  which  was  sure  onusual.  An' 
I  laid  it  to  that  driver. 

"One  day  not  long  ago  I  run  across  him  hobnobbin' 
with  the  strange  man  I'd  seen  talkin'  with  him  on  the  Bend 
trip.  But  my  driver — Nash,  he  calls  himself — didn't  see 
me.  That  night  I  put  a  cowboy  to  watch  him.  An* 
what  this  cowboy  heard,  put  together  two  an'  two,  was 
that  Nash  was  assistant  to  an  I.  W.  W.  leader  named 
Glidden.  He  had  sent  for  Glidden  to  come  to  look  over 
my  ranch.  Both  these  I.  W.  W.  men  had  more  money 

45 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

than  they  could  well  carry — lots  of  it  gold !  The  way  they 
talked  of  this  money  proved  that  they  did  not  know  the 
source,  but  the  supply  was  unlimited. 

"Next  day  Glidden  could  not  be  found.  But  my  cow 
boy  had  learned  enough  to  show  his  methods.  If  these 
proselyters  could  not  coax  or  scare  trusted  men  to  join  the 
I.  W.  W.,  they  tried  to  corrupt  them  with  money.  An' 
in  most  cases  they're  successful.  I've  not  yet  sprung 
anythin'  on  my  driver,  Nash.  But  he  can't  get  away,  an' 
meanwhile  I'll  learn  much  by  watchin'  him.  Maybe 
through  Nash  I  can  catch  Glidden.  An'  so,  gentlemen, 
here  we  have  a  plain  case.  An'  the  menace  is  enough  to 
chill  the  heart  of  every  loyal  citizen.  Any  way  you  put  it, 
if  harvests  can't  be  harvested,  if  wheat-fields  an'  lumber 
forests  are  burned,  if  the  state  militia  has  to  be  called  out — 
any  way  you  put  it  our  government  will  be  hampered,  our 
supplies  kept  from  our  allies — an'  so  the  cause  of  Germany 
will  be  helped. 

''The  I.  W.  W.  have  back  of  them  an  organized  power 
with  a  definite  purpose.  There  can  hardly  be  any  doubt 
that  that  power  is  Germany.  The  agitators  an'  leaders 
throughout  the  country  are  well  paid.  Probably  they,  as 
individuals,  do  not  know  who  pays  them.  Undoubtedly  a 
little  gang  of  men  makes  the  deals,  handles  the  money. 
We  read  that  every  U.  S.  attorney  is  investigating  the 
I.  W.  W.  The  government  has  determined  to  close  down 
on  them.  But  lawyers  an'  law  are  slow  to  act.  Mean 
while  the  danger  to  us  is  at  hand. 

"Gentlemen,  to  finish  let  me  say  that  down  in  my 
country  we're  goin'  to  rustle  the  I.  W.  W.  in  the  good  old 
Western  way." 


CHAPTER    V 

OLDEN  VALLEY  was  the  Garden  of  Eden  of  the 

Northwest.  The  southern  slope  rose  to  the  Blue 
Mountains,  whence  flowed  down  the  innumerable  brooks 
that,  uniting  to  form  streams  and  rivers,  abundantly 
watered  the  valley. 

The  black  reaches  of  timber  extended  down  to  the 
grazing-uplands,  and  these  bordered  on  the  sloping  golden 
wheat-fields,  which  in  turn  contrasted  so  vividly  with  the 
lower  green  alfalfa-pastures;  then  came  the  orchards  with 
their  ruddy,  mellow  fruit, and  lastly  the  bottom-lands  where 
the  vegetable-gardens  attested  to  the  wonderful  richness  of 
the  soil.  From  the  mountain-side  the  valley  seemed  a  series 
of  colored  benches,  stepping  down,  black  to  gray,  and  gray 
to  gold,  and  gold  to  green  with  purple  tinge,  and  on  to  the 
perfectly  ordered,  many-hued  floor  with  its  innumerable 
winding,  tree-bordered  streams  glinting  in  the  sunlight. 

The  extremes  of  heat  and  cold  never  visited  Golden 
Valley.  Spokane  and  the  Bend  country,  just  now  swelter 
ing  in  a  torrid  zone,  might  as  well  have  been  in  the  Sahara, 
for  all  the  effect  it  had  on  this  garden  spot  of  all  the  Inland 
Empire.  It  was  hot  in  the  valley,  but  not  unpleasant. 
In  fact,  the  greatest  charm  in  this  secluded  vale  was  its 
pleasant  climate  all  the  year  round.  No  summer  cyclones, 
no  winter  blizzards,  no  cloudbursts  or  bad  thunder-storms. 
It  was  a  country  that,  once  lived  in,  could  never  be  left. 

There  were  no  poor  inhabitants  in  that  great  area  of 
twenty-five  hundred  miles ;  and  there  were  many  who  were 
rich.  Prosperous  little  towns  dotted  the  valley  floor; 
and  the  many  smooth,  dusty,  much-used  roads  all  led  to 
Ruxton,  a  wealthy  and  fine  city. 

Anderson,  the  rancher,  had  driven  his  car  to  Spokane. 

47 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Upon  his  return  he  had  with  him  a  detective,  whom  he 
expected  to  use  in  the  I.  W.  W.  investigations,  and  a  neigh 
bor  rancher.  They  had  left  Spokane  early  and  had  en 
dured  almost  insupportable  dust  and  heat.  A  welcome 
change  began  as  they  slid  down  from  the  bare  desert  into 
the  valley;  and  once  across  the  Copper  River,  Anderson 
began  to  breath  freer  and  to  feel  he  was  nearing  home. 

"God's  country !"  he  said,  as  he  struck  the  first  low  swell 
of  rising  land,  where  a  cool  wind  from  off  the  wooded  and 
watered  hills  greeted  his  face.  Dust  there  still  was,  but  it 
seemed  a  different  land  and  smelled  of  apple-orchards  and 
alfalfa-fields.  Here  were  hard,  smooth  roads,  and  Ander 
son  sped  his  car  miles  and  miles  through  a  country  that 
was  a  verdant  fragrant  bower,  and  across  bright,  shady 
streams  and  by  white  little  hamlets. 

At  Huntington  he  dropped  his  neighbor  rancher,  and 
also  the  detective,  Hall,  who  was  to  go  disguised  into  the 
districts  overrun  by  the  I.  W.  W.  A  further  run  of  forty 
miles  put  him  on  his  own  property. 

Anderson  owned  a  string  of  farms  and  ranches  extending 
from  the  bottom-lands  to  the  timer-line  of  the  mountains. 
They  represented  his  life  of  hard  work  and  fair  dealing. 
Many  of  these  orchard  and  vegetable  lands  he  had  tenant 
farmers  work  on  shares.  The  uplands  or  wheat  and  grass 
he  operated  himself.  As  he  had  accumulated  property  he 
had  changed  his  place  of  residence  from  time  to  time,  at 
last  to  build  a  beautiful  and  permanent  home  farther  up  on 
the  valley  slope  than  any  of  the  others. 

It  was  a  modern  house,  white,  with  a  red  roof.  Situated 
upon  a  high  level  bench,  with  the  waving  gold  fields  sloping 
up  from  it  and  the  green  squares  of  alfalfa  and  orchards 
below,  it  appeared  a  landmark  from  all  around,  and  could 
be  plainly  seen  from  Vale,  the  nearest  little  town,  five 
miles  away. 

Anderson  had  always  loved  the  open,  and  he  wanted  a 
place  where  he  could  see  the  sun  rise  over  the  distant  val 
ley  gateway,  and  watch  it  set  beyond  the  bold  black  range 

43  ' 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

in  the  west.  He  could  sit  on  his  front  porch,  wide  and 
shady,  and  look  down  over  two  thousand  acres  of  his  own 
land.  But  from  the  back  porch  no  eye  could  have  en 
compassed  the  limit  of  his  broad,  swelling  slopes  of  grain 
and  grass. 

From  the  main  road  he  drove  up  to  the  right  of  the 
house,  where,  under  a  dip  of  wooded  slope,  clustered 
barns,  sheds,  corrals,  granaries,  engine  and  machinery 
houses,  a  store,  and  the  homes  of  hired  men — a  little 
village  in  itself. 

The  sounds  he  heard  were  a  welcome  home — the  rush  of 
swift  water  not  twenty  yards  from  where  he  stopped  the 
car  in  the  big  courtyard,  the  pound  of  hoofs  on  the  barn 
floor,  the  shrill  whistle  of  a  stallion  that  saw  and  recognized 
him,  the  drawling  laugh  of  his  cowboys  and  the  clink  of 
their  spurs  as  they  became  aware  of  his  return. 

Nash,  the  suspected  driver,  was  among  those  who 
hurried  to  meet  the  car. 

Anderson's  keen,  covert  glance  made  note  of  the  driver's 
worried  and  anxious  face. 

"Nash,  she'll  need  a  lookin'  over,"  he  said,  as  he  un 
covered  bundles  in  the  back  seat  and  lifted  them  out. 

"  All  right,  sir,"  replied  Nash,  eagerly.  A  note  of  ended 
strain  was  significant  in  his  voice. 

"Here,  you  Jake,"  cheerily  called  Anderson  to  a  raw- 
boned,  gaunt-faced  fellow  who  wore  the  garb  of  a  cowboy. 

"Boss,  I'm  powerful  glad  to  see  you  home,"  replied 
Jake,  as  he  received  bundle  after  bundle  until  he  was 
loaded  down.  Then  he  grinned.  "Mebbe  you  want  a 
pack-hoss." 

"You're  hoss  enough  for  me.  Come  on,"  he  said,  and, 
waving  the  other  men  aside,  he  turned  toward  the  green, 
shady  hill  above  which  the  red  and  white  of  the  house  just 
showed. 

A  bridge  crossed  the  rushing  stream.  Here  Jake  dropped 
some  of  the  bundles,  and  Anderson  recovered  them.  As 
he  straightened  up  he  looked  searchingly  at  the  cowboy. 

49 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Jake's  yellow-gray  eyes  returned  the  gaze.  And  that 
exchange  showed  these  two  of  the  same  breed  and  sure  of 
each  other. 

"Nawthin*  come  off,  boss,"  he  drawled,  "but  I'm  glad 
you're  home." 

"Did  Nash  leave  the  place?"  queried  Anderson. 

"Twice,  at  night,  an'  he  was  gone  long.  I  didn't 
foller  him  because  I  seen  he  didn't  take  no  luggage,  an* 
thet  boy  has  some  sporty  clothes.  He  was  sure  comin* 
back." 

"Any  sign  of  his  pard — that  Glidden?" 

1 '  Nope.  But  there's  been  more  'n  one  new  feller  snookin* 
round." 

"Have  you  heard  from  any  of  the  boys  with  the  cattle?" 

"Yep.  Bill  Weeks  rode  down.  He  said  a  bunch  of 
I.  W.  W.'s  were  campin'  above  Blue  Spring.  Thet  means 
they've  moved  on  down  to  the  edge  of  the  timber  an* 
oncomfortable  near  our  wheat.  Bill  says  they're  killin' 
our  stock  fer  meat." 

"Hum!  .  .  .  How  many  in  the  gang?"  inquired  "An 
derson,  darkly.  His  early  dealings  with  outlaw  rustlers 
had  not  left  him  favorably  inclined  toward  losing  a 
single  steer. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  we  can't  say.  Mebbe  five  hundred, 
countin'  all  along  the  valley  on  this  side.  Then  we  hear 
there's  more  on  the  other.  .  .  .  Boss,  if  they  git  ugly 
we're  goin'  to  lose  stock,  wheat,  an'  mebbe  some  blood." 

"So  many  as  that!"  ejaculated  the  rancher,  in  amaze. 

"They  come  an'  go,  an'  lately  they're  most  comin'," 
replied  Jake. 

"When  do  we  begin  cuttin'  grain?" 

"I  reckon  to-morrow.  Adams  didn't  want  to  start  till 
you  got  back.  It  11  be  barley  an'  oats  fer  a  few  days,  an* 
then  the  wheat — if  we  can  git  the  men." 

"An'  has  Adams  hired  any?" 

"Yes,  a  matter  of  twenty  or  so.  They  swore  they 
wasn't  I.  W,  W.'s,  but  Adams  says,  an'  so  do  I,  thet  some  of 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

them  are  men  who  first  claimed  to  our  old  hands  thet  they 
did  belong  to  the  I.  W.  W." 

"An'  so  we've  got  to  take  a  chance  if  we're  goin'  to 
harvest  two  thousand  acres  of  wheat?" 

"I  reckon,  boss." 

"Any  reports  from  Ruxton  way?" 

"Wai,  yes.  But  I  reckon  you'd  better  git  your  supper 
'fore  I  tell  you,  boss." 

"Jake,  you  said  nothin'  had  come  off." 

"Wai,  nawthin'  has  around  here.  Come  on  now,  DOSS. 
Miss  Lenore  says  I  was  to  keep  my  mouth  shut." 

"Jake,  who's  your  boss?     Me  or  Lenore?" 

"Wai,  you  air.     But  I  ain't  disobeyin'  Miss  Lenore." 

Anderson  walked  the  rest  of  the  way  up  the  shady  path 
to  the  house  without  saying  any  more  to  Jake.  The 
beautiful  white  house  stood  clear  of  the  grove,  bright  in 
the  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  A  barking  of  dogs  greeted 
Anderson,  and  then  the  pattering  of  feet.  His  daughters 
appeared  on  the  porch.  Kathleen,  who  was  ten,  made  a 
dive  for  him,  and  Rose,  who  was  fourteen,  came  flying 
after  her.  Both  girls  were  screaming  joyously.  Their 
sunny  hair  danced.  Lenore  waited  for  him  at  the  step, 
and  as  he  mounted  the  porch,  burdened  by  the  three  girls, 
his  anxious,  sadly  smiling  wife  came  out  to  make  perfect 
the  welcome  home.  No — not  perfect,  for  Anderson's 
joy  held  a  bitter  drop,  the  absence  of  his  only  son! 

"Oh,  dad,  what-all  did  you  fetch  me?"  cried  Kathleen, 
and  she  deserted  her  father  for  the  bundle-laden  Jake. 

"And me!"  echoed  Rose. 

Even  Lenore,  in  the  happiness  of  her  father's  return,  was 
not  proof  against  the  wonder  and  promise  of  those  many 
bundles. 

^  They  all  went  within,  through  a  hall  to  a  great,  cozy 
living-room.  Mrs.  Anderson's  very  first  words,  after  her 
welcoming  smile,  were  a  half-faltered: 

"Any — news  of — Jim?" 

"Why— yes,"  replied  Anderson,  hesitatingly. 

Si 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Suddenly  the  three  sisters  were  silent.  How  closely 
they  resembled  one  another  then — Lenore,  a  budding 
woman;  Rose,  a  budding  girl;  and  Kathleen,  a  rosy, 
radiant  child!  Lenore  lost  a  little  of  her  bloom. 

"What  news,  father?"  she  asked. 

"Haven't  you  heard  from  him?"  returned  Anderson. 

"Not  for  a  whole  week.  He  wrote  the  day  he  reached 
Spokane.  But  then  he  hardly  knew  anything  except  that 
he'd  enlisted." 

"I'm  sure  glad  Jim  didn't  wait  for  the  draft,"  replied  the 
father.  "Well,  mother  an'  girls,  Jim  was  gone  when  I 
got  to  Spokane.  All  I  heard  was  that  he  was  well  when  he 
left  for  Frisco  an'  strong  for  the  aviation  corps." 

"Then  he  means  to — to  be  an  aviator,"  said  Lenore, 
with  quivering  lips. 

"Sure,  if  he  can  get  in.  An'  he's  wise.  Jim  knows 
engines.  He  has  a  knack  for  machinery.  An'  nerve! 
No  boy  ever  had  more.  He'll  make  a  crack  flier." 

"But — the  danger!"  whispered  the  boy's  mother,  with 
a  shudder. 

"I  reckon  there'll  be  a  little  danger,  mother,"  replied 
Anderson,  cheerfully.  "We've  got  to  take  our  chance 
on  Jim.  There's  one  sure  bet.  If  he  had  stayed  hcme 
he'd  been  fightin'  I.  W.  W.'s!" 

That  trying  moment  passed.  Mrs.  Anderson  said  that 
she  would  see  to  supper  being  put  on  the  table  at  once. 
The  younger  girls  began  untying  the  bundles.  Lenore 
studied  her  father's  face  a  moment 

"Jake,  you  run  along,"  she  said  to  the  waiting  cowboy. 
"Wait  till  after  supper  before  you  worry  father." 

"I'll  do  thet,  Miss  Lenore,"  drawled  Jake,  "an'  if  he 
wants  worryin'  he'll  hev  to  look  me  up." 

"Lass,  I'm  only  tired,  not  worried,  "  replied  Anderson, 
as  Jake  shuffled  out  with  jingling  spurs. 

"Did  anything  serious  happen  in  Spokane? "she  asked, 
anxiously. 

"No.  But  Spokane  men  are  alive  to  serious  trouble 

52 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

ahead,"  replied  her  father.  "I  spoke  to  the  Chamber  of 
Commerce — sure  exploded  a  bomb  in  that  camp.  Then  I 
had  conferences  with  a  good  many  different  men.  Fact  is 
they  ran  me  pretty  hard.  Couldn't  have  slept  much, 
anyhow,  in  that  heat.  Lass,  this  is  the  place  to  live!  .  .  . 
I'd  rather  die  here  than  live  in  Spokane,  in  summer." 

"  Did  you  see  the  Governor?" 

"Yes,  an'  he  wasn't  as  anxious  about  the  Golden  Valley 
as  the  Bend  country.  He's  right,  too.  We're  old  West 
erners  here.  We  can  handle  trouble.  But  they're  not 
Americans  up  there  in  the  Bend." 

"Father,  we  met  one  American,"  said  Lenore,  dreamily. 

"By  George!  we  did!  .  .  .  An'  that  reminds  me. 
There  was  a  government  official  from  Washington,  come 
out  to  Spokane  to  investigate  conditions.  I  forget  his 
name.  He  asked  to  meet  me  an'  he  was  curious  about  the 
Bend — its  loyalty  to  the  U.  S.  I  told  him  all  I  knew  an' 
what  I  thought.  An'  then  he  said  he  was  goin'  to  motor 
through  that  wheat-belt  an'  talk  to  what  Americans  he 
could  find,  an'  impress  upon  them  that  they  could  do  as 
much  as  soldiers  to  win  the  war.  Wheat — bread — that's 
our  great  gun  in  this  war,  Lenore!  ...  I  knew  this,  but 
I  was  made  pretty  blamed  sober  by  that  government  man. 
I  told  him  by  all  means  to  go  to  Palmer  an'  to  have  a  talk 
with  young  Dorn.  I  sure  gave  that  boy  a  good  word. 
Poor  lad!  He's  true  blue.  An'  to  think  of  him  with  that 
old  German  devil.  Old  Dorn  has  always  had  a  hard  name. 
An'  this  war  has  brought  out  the  German  cussedness." 

"Father,  I'm  glad  you  spoke  well  of  the  young  man," 
said  Lenore,  still  dreamily. 

"Hum!  You  never  told  me  what  you  thought," 
replied  her  father,  with  a  quick  glance  of  inquiry  at  her. 
Lenore  was  gazing  out  of  the  window,  away  across  the 
wheat-fields  and  the  range.  Anderson  watched  her  a 
moment,  and  then  resumed:  'If  I  can  get  away  I'm 
goin'  to  drive  up  to  see  Dorn  again  pretty  soon.  Do  you 
want  to  go?" 

S3 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Lenore  gave  a  little  start,  as  if  the  question  had  surprised 
her. 

"I — I  hardly  think  so,"  she  replied. 

"  It's  just  as  well,  "he  said.  "That '11  be  a  hard  ride.  .  .  . 
Guess  I'll  clean  up  a  little  for  supper." 

Anderson  left  the  room,  and,  while  Kathleen  and  Rose 
gleefully  squabbled  over  the  bundles,  Lenore  continued  to 
gaze  dreamily  out  of  the  window. 

That  night  Lenore  went  early  to  her  room,  despite  the 
presence  of  some  young  people  from  a  neighboring  village. 
She  locked  her  door  and  sat  in  the  dark  beside  her  open 
window. 

An  early  moon  silvered  the  long  slopes  of  wheat  and 
made  the  alfalfa  squares  seem  black.  A  cool,  faint,  sweet 
breeze  fanned  her  cheek.  She  could  smell  the  fragrance  of 
apples,  of  new-mown  hay,  and  she  could  hear  the  low  mur 
mur  of  running  water.  A  hound  bayed  off  somewhere  in 
the  fields.  There  was  no  other  sound.  It  was  a  quiet, 
beautiful,  pastoral  scene.  But  somehow  it  did  not  comfort 
Lenore. 

She  seemed  to  doubt  the  sincerity  of  what  she  saw  there 
and  loved  so  well.  Moon-blanched  and  serene,  lonely  and 
silent,  beautiful  and  promising,  the  wide  acres  of  "Many 
Waters,"  and  the  silver  slopes  and  dark  mountains  beyond, 
did  not  tell  the  truth.  'Way  over  the  dark  ranges  a  hideous 
war  had  stretched  out  a  red  hand  to  her  country.  Her 
only  brother  had  left  his  home  to  fight,  and  there  was  no 
telling  if  he  would  ever  come  back.  Evil  forces  were 
at  work  out  there  in  the  moonlight.  There  had  come  a 
time  for  her  to  be  thoughtful. 

Her  father's  asking  her  to  ride  to  the  Bend  country 
had  caused  some  strange  little  shock  of  surprise.  Lenore 
had  dreamed  without  thinking.  Here  in  the  darkness 
and  silence,  watching  the  crescent  moon  slowly  sink,  she 
did  think.  And  it  was  to  learn  that  she  remembered 
singularly  well  the  first  time  she  had  seen  young  Dora, 

54 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

and  still  more  vividly  the  second  time,  but  the  third 
time  seemed  both  clear  and  vague.  Enough  young  men 
had  been  smitten  with  Lenore  to  enable  her  to  gauge  the 
symptoms  of  these  easy-come,  easy-go  attractions.  In 
fact,  they  rather  repelled  her.  But  she  had  found  Dorn's 
manner  striking,  confusing,  and  unforgetable.  And  why 
that  should  be  so  interested  her  intelligence. 

It  was  confusing  to  discover  that  she  could  not  lay  it  to 
the  sympathy  she  had  felt  for  an  American  boy  in  a 
difficult  position,  because  she  had  often  thought  of  him 
long  before  she  had  any  idea  who  he  was  or  where  he  lived. 

In  the  very  first  place,  he  had  been  unforgetable  for 
two  reasons — because  he  had  been  so  struck  at  sight  of 
her  that  he  had  gazed  unconsciously,  with  a  glow  on  his 
face  and  a  radiance  in  his  eye,  as  of  a  young  poet  spell 
bound  at  an  inspiration ;  and  because  he  seemed  the  physi 
cal  type  of  young  man  she  had  idealized — a  strong,  lithe- 
limbed,  blond  giant,  with  a  handsome,  frank  face,  clear- 
cut  and  smooth,  ruddy-cheeked  and  blue-eyed. 

Only  after  meeting  him  out  there  in  the  desert  of  wheat 
had  she  felt  sympathy  for  him.  And  now  with  intelli 
gence  and  a  woman's  intuition,  barring  the  old,  insidious, 
dreamy  mood,  Lenore  went  over  in  retrospect  all  she  could 
remember  of  that  meeting.  And  the  truth  made  her 
sharply  catch  her  breath.  Dorn  had  fallen  in  love  with 
her.  Intuition  declared  that,  while  her  intelligence  re 
pudiated  it.  Stranger  than  all  was  the  thrill  which  began 
somewhere  in  the  unknown  depths  of  her  and  mounted,  to 
leave  her  tingling  all  over.  She  had  told  her  father  that 
she  did  not  want  to  ride  to  the  Bend  country.  But  she 
did  want  to  go!  And  that  thought,  flashing  up,  would 
not  be  denied.  To  want  to  meet  a  strange  young  man 
again  was  absolutely  a  new  and  irritating  discovery  for 
Lenore.  It  mystified  her,  because  she  had  not  had  time 
to  like  Dorn.  Liking  an  acquaintance  had  nothing  to  do 
frith  the  fact.  And  that  stunned  her. 

"Could  it  be — love  at  first  sight?"  she  whispered, 

55 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

incredulously,  as  she  stared   out  over  the   shadowing 
fields. 

"For  me?  Why,  how  absurd — impossible!  .  .  .  I — 
I  only  remembered  him — a  big  handsome  boy  with  blazing 
eyes.  .  .  .  And  now  I'm  sorry  for  him!" 

To  whisper  her  amaze  and  doubt  and  consternation  only 
augmented  the  instinctive  recurring  emotion.  She  felt 
something  she  could  not  explain.  And  that  something  was 
scarcely  owing  to  this  young  man's  pitiful  position  be 
tween  duty  to  his  father  and  love  for  his  country.  It  had 
to  do  with  his  blazing  eyes ;  intangible,  dreamlike  percep 
tions  of  him  as  not  real,  of  vague  sweet  fancies  that  retreat 
ed  before  her  introspective  questioning.  What  alarmed 
Lenore  was  a  tendency  of  her  mind  to  shirk  this  revealing 
analysis.  Never  before  had  she  been  afraid  to  look  into 
herself.  But  now  she  was  finding  unplumbed  wells  of 
feeling,  secret  chambers  of  dreams  into  which  she  had 
never  let  the  light,  strange  instinctive  activities,  more 
physical  than  mental.  When  in  her  life  before  had  she 
experienced  a  nameless  palpitation  of  her  heart  ? 

Long  she  sat  there,  staring  out  into  the  night.  And  the 
change  in  the  aspect  of  the  broad  spaces,  now  dark  and 
impenetrable  and  mysterious,  seemed  like  the  change  in 
the  knowledge  of  herself.  Once  she  had  flattered  herself 
that  she  was  an  inch  of  crystal  water;  now  she  seemed 
a  complex,  aloof,  and  contrary  creature,  almost  on  the 
verge  of  tumultuous  emotions. 

She  said  her  prayers  that  night,  a  girlish  habit  resumed 
since  her  brother  had  declared  his  intention  of  enlisting  in 
the  army.  And  to  that  old  prayer,  which  her  mother  had 
prayed  before  her,  she  added  an  appeal  of  her  own. 
Strange  that  young  Dorn's  face  should  flash  out  of  gloom ! 
It  was  there,  and  her  brother's  was  fading. 

"I  wonder — will  he  and  Jim — meet  over  there — on  the 
battle-field!"  she  whispered.  She  hoped  they  would. 
Like  tigers  those  boys  would  fight  the  Germans.  Her 
heart  beat  high.  Then  a  cold  wind  seemed  to  blow  over 

56 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

her.  It  had  a  sickening  weight.  If  that  icy  and  somber 
wind  could  have  been  traced  to  its  source,  then  the  mystery 
of  life  would  have  been  clear.  But  that  source  was  the 
cause  of  war,  as  its  effect  was  the  horror  of  women.  A 
hideous  and  monstrous  thing  existed  out  there  in  the 
darkness.  Lenore  passionately  loved  her  brother,  and 
this  black  thing  had  taken  him  away.  Why  could  not 
women,  who  suffered  most,  have  some  word  in  the  regula 
tion  of  events?  If  women  cotild  help  govern  the  world 
there  would  be  no  wars. 

At  last  encroaching  drowsiness  dulled  the  poignancy  of 
her  feelings  and  she  sank  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SINGING  of  birds  at  her  window  awakened  Lenore. 
The  dawn  streamed  in  bright  and  sweetly  fragrant. 
The  wheat-fields  seemed  a  rosy  gold,  and  all  that  open 
slope  called  to  her  thrillingly  of  the  beauty  of  the  world  and 
the  happiness  of  youth.  It  was  not  possible  to  be  morbid 
at  dawn.  "I  hear!  I  hear!"  she  whispered.  "From  a 
thousand  slopes  far  and  wide!" 

At  the  breakfast-table,  when  there  came  opportunity, 
she  looked  up  serenely  and  said,  "  Father,  on  second 
thought  I  will  go  to  the  Bend,  thank  you!" 

Anderson  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  and  his  eyes 
opened  wide  in  surprise.  "Changed  your  mind!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"  That's  a  privilege  I  have,  you  know,"  she  replied, 
calmly. 

Mrs.  Anderson  appeared  more  anxious  than  surprised. 
"Daughter,  don't  go.  That  will  be  a  fearful  ride." 

"Hum!  Sure  glad  to  have  you,  lass,"  added  Anderson, 
with  his  keen  eyes  on  her. 

"Let  me  go,  too,"  begged  Rose. 

Kathleen  was  solemnly  gazing  at  Lenore,  with  the  wise, 
penetrating  eyes  of  extreme  youth. 

"Lenore,  I'll  bet  you've  got  a  new  beau  up  there," 
she  declared. 

Lenore  flushed  scarlet.  She  was  less  angry  with  her 
little  sister  than  with  the  incomprehensible  fact  of  a  play 
ful  word  bringing  the  blood  stingingly  to  her  neck  and  face. 

"Kitty,  you  forget  your  manners,"  she  said,  sharply. 

"Kit  is  fresh.  She's  an  awful  child,"  added  Rose, 
with  a  superior  air. 

' '  I  didn't  say  a  thing, '  *  cried  Kathleen,  hotly.  ' '  Lenore, 
if  it  isn't  true,  why'd  you  blush  so  red?" 

58 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Hush,  you  silly  children!"  ordered  the  mother,  reprov 
ingly. 

Lenore  was  glad  to  finish  that  meal  and  to  get  outdoors, 
She  could  smile  now  at  that  shrewd  and  terrible  Kitty,  but 
recollection  of  her  father's  keen  eyes  was  confusing. 
Lenore  felt  there  was  really  nothing  to  blush  for;  still,  she 
could  scarcely  tell  her  father  that  upon  awakening  this 
morning  she  had  found  her  mind  made  up — that  only  by 
going  to  the  Bend  country  could  she  determine  the  true 
state  of  her  feelings.  She  simply  dared  not  accuse  her 
self  of  being  in  unusually  radiant  spirits  because  she  was 
going  to  undertake  a  long,  hard  ride  into  a  barren,  desert 
country. 

The  grave  and  thoughtful  mood  of  last  night  had  gone 
with  her  slumbers.  Often  Lenore  had  found  problems 
decided  for  her  while  she  slept.  On  this  fresh,  sweet 
summer  morning,  with  the  sun  bright  and  warm,  presaging 
a  hot  and  glorious  day,  Lenore  wanted  to  run  with  the 
winds,  to  wade  through  the  alfalfa,  to  watch  with  strange 
and  renewed  pleasure  the  waves  of  shadow  as  they  went 
over  the  wheat.  All  her  life  she  had  known  and  loved  the 
fields  of  waving  gold.  But  they  had  never  been  to  her 
what  they  had  become  overnight.  Perhaps  this  was 
because  it  had  been  said  that  the  issue  of  the  great  war, 
the  salvation  of  the  \vorld,  and  its  happiness,  its  hope, 
depended  upon  the  millions  of  broad  acres  of  golden 
grain.  Bread  was  the  staff  of  life.  Lenore  felt  that  she 
was  changing  and  growing.  If  anything  should  happen  to 
her  brothe  Jim  she  would  be  heiress  to  thousands  of 
acres  of  wheat.  A  pang  shot  through  her  heart.  She  had 
to  drive  the  cold  thought  away.  And  she  must  learn — 
must  know  the  bigness  of  this  question.  The  women  of 
the  country  would  be  called  upon  to  help,  to  do  their 
share. 

She  ran  down  through  the  grove  and  across  the  bridge, 
coming  abruptly  upon  Nash,  her  father's  driver.    He  had 
the  car  out. 
5  59 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Good  morning,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  doffing  his  cap. 

Lenore  returned  his  greeting  and  asked  if  her  father 
intended  to  go  anywhere. 

' '  No.     I'm  taking  telegrams  to  Huntington. ' ' 

"Telegrams?  What's  the  matter  with  the  'phone?" 
she  queried.  . 

"Wire  was  cut  yesterday." 

"By  I.  W.  W.  men?" 

*  *  So  your  father  says.     I  don't  know. ' ' 

"Something  ought  to  be  done  to  those  men,"  said  Le 
nore,  severely. 

Nash  was  a  dark-browed,  heavy-jawed  young  man, 
with  light  eyes  and  hair.  He  appeared  to  be  intelligent 
and  had  some  breeding,  but  his  manner  when  alone  with 
Lenore — he  had  driven  her  to  town  several  times — was 
not  the  same  as  when  her  father  was  present.  Lenore 
had  not  bothered  her  mind  about  it.  But  to-day  the 
look  in  his  eyes  was  offensive  to  her.  ' 

"Between  you  and  me,  Lenore,  I've  sympathy  for 
those  poor  devils,"  he  said. 

Lenore  drew  back  rather  haughtily  at  this  familiar  use 
of  her  first  name.  "It  doesn't  concern  me,"  she  said, 
coldly,  and  turned  away. 

"Won't  you  ride  along  with  me?  I'm  driving  around 
for  the  mail,"  he  called  after  her. 

"No,"  returned  Lenore,  shortly,  and  hurried  on  out  of 
earshot.  The  impertinence  of  the  fellow! 

"Mawnin',  Miss  Lenore!"  drawled  a  cheery  voice. 
The  voice  and  the  jingle  of  spurs  behind  her  told  Lenore  of 
the  presence  of  the  best  liked  of  all  her  father's  men. 

"Good  morning,  Jake!    Where's  my  dad?" 

"Wai,  he's  with  Adams,  an'  I  wouldn't  be  Adams  for  no 
money,"  replied  the  cowboy. 

"Neither  would  I,"  laughed  Lenore. 

"Reckon  you  ain't  ridin'  this  mawnin'.  You  sure  look 
powerful  fine,  Miss  Lenore,  but  you  can't  ride  in  thet 
bress." 

60 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Jake,  nothing  but  an  aeroplane  would  satisfy  me 
to-day." 

"Want  to  fly,  hey?  Wai,  excuse  me  from  them  birds. 
I  seen  one,  an'  thet's  enough  for  me.  .  .  .  An',  changin' 
the  subject,  Miss  Lenore,  beggin'  your  pardon — you  ain't 
ridin'  in  the  car  much  these  days." 

"No,  Jake,  I'm  not,"  she  replied,  and  looked  at  the 
cowboy.  She  would  have  trusted  Jake  as  she  would  her 
brother  Jim.  And  now  he  looked  earnest. 

"Wai,  I'm  sure  glad.  I  heerd  Nash  call  an'  ask  you  to 
go  with  him.  I  seen  his  eyes  when  he  said  it.  ...  Sure 
I  know  you'd  never  look  at  the  likes  of  him.  But  I  want 
to  tell  you — he  ain't  no  good.  I've  been  watchin'  him. 
Your  dad's  orders.  He's  mixed  up  with  the  I.  W.  W.'s. 
But  thet  ain't  what  I  mean.  It's —  He's —  I — " 

"Thank  you,  Jake,"  replied  Lenore,  as  the  cowboy 
floundered.  "I  appreciate  your  thought  of  me.  But 
you  needn't  worry." 

"I  was  worryin'  a  little,"  he  said.  "You  see,  I  know 
men  better  'n  your  dad,  an'  I  reckon  this  Nash  would  do 
anythin'." 

"  What's  father  keeping  him  for?" 

"Wai,  Anderson  wants  to  find  out  a  lot  about  thet 
I.  W.  W.,  an'  he  ain't  above  takin'  risks  to  do  it,  either." 

The  stable-boys  and  men  Lenore  passed  all  had  an  eager 
good  morning  for  her.  She  often  boasted  to  her  father 
that  she  could  run  "Many  Waters "  as  well  as  he.  Some 
times  there  were  difficulties  that  Lenore  had  no  little  part 
in  smoothing  over.  The  barns  and  corrals  were  familiar 
places  to  her,  and  she  insisted  upon  petting  every  horse, 
in  some  instances  to  Take's  manifest  concern. 

"Some  of  them  hosses  are  bad,"  he  insisted. 

"To  be  sure  they  are — when  wicked  cowboys  cuff  and 
kick  them,"  replied  Lenore,  laughingly. 

"Wai,  if  I'm  wicked,  I'm  a-goin'  to  war,"  said  Jake, 
reflectively.  ' '  Them  Germans  bother  me. ' ' 

"But,  Jake,  you  don't  come  in  the  draft  age,  do  you?" 

61 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

*' Jest  how  old  do  you  think  I  am?" 

"Sometimes  about  fourteen,  Jake." 

"Much  obliged.  Wai,  the  fact  is  I'm  over  age,  but 
I'll  gamble  I  can  pack  a  gun  an'  shoot  as  straight  an'  eat 
as  much  as  any  young  feller." 

"I'll  bet  so,  too,  Jake.  But  I  hope  you  won't  go.  We 
absolutely  could  not  run  this  ranch  without  you." 

' '  Sure  I  knew  thet .  Wai  then,  I  reckon  1 11  hang  around 
till  you're  married,  Miss  Lenore,"  he  drawled. 

Again  the  scarlet  mantled  Lenore's  cheeks. 

"Good.  We'll  have  many  harvests  then,  Jake,  and 
many  rides,"  she  replied. 

"Aw,  I  don't  know — "  he  began. 

But  Lenore  ran  away  so  that  she  could  hear  no  more. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me  that  people — that  Jake 
should — ?"  she  began,  and  ended  with  a  hand  on  each  soft, 
hot  cheek.  There  was  something  different  about  her, 
that  seemed  certain.  And  if  her  eyes  were  as  bright  as 
the  day,  with  its  deep  blue  and  white  clouds  and  shining 
green  and  golden  fields,  then  any  one  might  think  what  he 
liked  and  have  proof  for  his  tormenting. 

"But  married!  I?  Not  much.  Do  I  want  a  husband 
getting  shot?" 

The  path  Lenore  trod  so  lightly  led  along  a  great  peach 
and  apple  orchard  where  the  trees  were  set  far  apart  and 
the  soil  was  ctiltivated,  so  that  not  a  weed  nor  a  blade  of 
grass  showed.  The  fragrance  of  fruit  in  the  air,  however, 
did  not  come  from  this  orchard,  for  the  trees  were  young 
and  the  reddening  fruit  rare.  Down  the  wide  aisles  she 
saw  the  thick  and  abundant  green  of  the  older  orchards. 

At  length  Lenore  reached  the  alfalfa-fields,  and  here 
among  the  mounds  of  newly  cut  hay  that  smelled  so  fresh 
and  sweet  she  wanted  to  roll,  and  she  had  to  run.  Two 
great  wagons  with  four  horses  each  were  being  loaded. 
Lenore  knew  all  the  workmen  except  one.  Silas  Warner, 
an  old,  gray-headed  farmer,  had  been  with  her  father  as 
long  as  she  could  remember. 

62 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"  Whar  you  goin',  lass?"  he  called,  as  he  halted  to  wipe 
his  red  face  with  a  huge  bandana.  "It's  too  hot  to  run 
the  way  you're  a-doin'." 

"Oh,  Silas,  it's  a  grand  morning!"  she  replied. 

"Why,  so  'tis!  Pitchin'  hay  hyar  made  me  think  it 
was  hot,"  he  said,  as  she  tripped  on.  "Now,  lass,  don't 
go  up  to  the  wheat-fields." 

But  Lenore  heard  heedlessly,  and  she  ran  on  till  she  came 
to  the  uncut  alfalfa,  which  impeded  her  progress.  A 
wonderful  space  of  green  and  purple  stretched  away  before 
her,  and  into  it  she  waded.  It  came  up  to  her  knees,  rich, 
thick,  soft,  and  redolent  of  blossom  and  ripeness.  Hard 
tramping  it  soon  got  to  be.  She  grew  hot  and  breathless, 
and  her  legs  ached  from  the  force  expended  in  making 
progress  through  the  tangled  hay.  At  last  she  was  almost 
across  the  field,  far  from  the  cutters,  and  here  she  flung 
herself,  to  roll  and  lie  fiat  and  gaze  up  through  the  deep 
azure  of  sky,  wonderingly,  as  if  to  penetrate  its  secret. 
And  then  she  hid  her  face  in  the  fragrant  thickness  that 
seemed  to  force  a  whisper  from  her. 

"  I  wonder — how  will  I  feel — when  I  see  him — again.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  wonder!" 

The  sound  of  the  whispered  words,  the  question,  the 
inevitableness  of  something  involuntary,  proved  traitors  to 
her  happy  dreams,  her  assurance,  her  composure.  She 
tried  to  burrow  under  the  hay,  to  hide  from  that  tremen 
dous  bright-blue  eye,  the  sky.  Suddenly  she  lay  very 
quiet,  feeling  the  strange  glow  and  throb  and  race  of  her 
blood,  sensing  the  mystery  of  her  body,  trying  to  trace 
the  thrills,  to  control  this  queer,  tremulous,  internal  state. 
But  she  found  she  could  not  think  clearly;  she  could  only 
feel.  And  she  gave  up  trying.  It  was  sweet  to  feel. 

She  rose  and  went  on.  Another  field  lay  beyond,  a 
gradual  slope,  covered  with  a  new  growth  of  alfalfa.  It 
was  a  light  green — a  contrast  to  the  rich  darkness  of  that 
behind  her.  At  the  end  of  this  field  ran  a  swift  little  brook, 
dear  and  musical,  open  to  the  sky  in  places,  and  in  others 

63 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

hidden  under  flowery  banks.  Birds  sang  from  invisible 
coverts;  a  quail  sent  up  clear  flutelike  notes;  and  a  lark 
caroled,  seemingly  out  of  the  sky. 

Lenore  wet  her  feet  crossing  the  brook,  and,  climbing 
the  little  knoll  above,  she  sat  down  upon  a  stone  to  dry 
them  in  the  sun.  It  had  a  burn  that  felt  good.  No 
matter  how  hot  the  sun  ever  got  there,  she  liked  it.  Al 
ways  there  seemed  air  to  breathe  and  the  shade  was 
pleasant. 

From  this  vantage-point,  a  favorite  one  with  Lenore, 
she  could  see  all  the  alfalfa-fields,  the  hill  crowned  by  the 
beautiful  white-and-red  house,  the  acres  of  garden,  and 
the  miles  of  orchards.  The  grazing  and  grain  fields  began 
behind  her. 

The  brook  murmured  below  her  and  the  birds  sang. 
She  heard  the  bees  humming  by.  The  air  out  here  was 
clear  of  scent  of  fruit  and  hay,  and  it  bore  a  drier  odor,  not 
so  sweet.  She  could  see  the  workmen,  first  those  among 
the  alfalfa,  and  then  the  men,  and  women,  too,  bending 
over  on  the  vegetable-gardens.  Likewise  she  could  see 
the  gleam  of  peaches,  apples,  pears,  and  plums — a  colorful 
and  mixed  gleam,  delightful  to  the  eye. 

Wet  or  dry,  it  seemed  that  her  feet  refused  to  stay  still, 
and  once  again  she  was  wandering.  A  gray,  slate-colored 
field  of  oats  invited  her  steps,  and  across  this  stretch  she 
saw  a  long  yellow  slope  of  barley,  where  the  men  were 
cutting.  Beyond  waved  the  golden  fields  of  wheat. 
Lenore  imagined  that  when  she  reached  them  she  would 
not  desire  to  wander  farther. 

There  were  two  machines  cutting  on  the  barley  slope, 
one  drawn  by  eight  horses,  and  the  other  by  twelve. 
When  Lenore  had  crossed  the  oat-field  she  discovered  a 
number  of  strange  men  lounging  in  the  scant  shade  of  a 
line  of  low  trees  that  separated  the  fields.  Here  she  saw 
Adams,  the  foreman;  and  he  espied  her  at  the  same  mo 
ment.  He  had  been  sitting  down,  talking  to  the  men.  At 
once  he  rose  to  come  toward  Lenore. 

64 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Is  your  father  with  you?"  he  asked. 

"No;  he's  too  slow  for  me,"  replied  Lenore.  "Who 
are  these  men?" 

"They're  strangers  looking  for  jobs." 

"I.  W.  W.  men?"  queried  Lenore,  in  lower  voice. 

"Surely  must  be,"  he  replied.  Adams  was  not  a 
young,  not  a  robust  man,  and  he  seemed  to  carry  a 
burden  of  worry.  "Your  father  said  he  would  come 
right  out." 

"I  hope  he  doesn't,"  said  Lenore,  bluntly.  "Father 
has  a  way  with  him,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know.  And  it's  the  way  we're  needing  here  in 
the  Valley,"  replied  the  foreman,  significantly. 

"  Is  that  the  new  harvester-thresher  father  just  bought?" 
asked  Lenore,  pointing  to  a  huge  machine,  shining  and 
creeping  behind  the  twelve  horses. 

"Yes,  that's  the  McCormack  and  it's  a  dandy,"  re 
turned  Adams.  "With  machines  like  that  we  can  get 
along  without  the  I.  W.  W." 

"I  want  a  ride  on  it,"  declared  Lenore,  and  she  ran 
along  to  meet  the  harvester.  She  waved  her  hand  to  the 
driver,  Bill  Jones,  another  old  hand,  long  employed  by 
her  father.  Bill  hauled  back  on  the  many-branched  reins, 
and  when  the  horses  stopped  the  clattering,  whirring  roar 
of  the  machine  also  ceased. 

"Howdy,  miss!  Reckon  this  's  a  regular  I.  W.  W. 
hold-up." 

"Worse  than  that,  Bill,"  gaily  replied  Lenore  as  she 
mounted  the  platform  where  another  man  sat  on  a  bag 
of  barley.  Lenore  did  not  recognize  him.  He  looked 
rugged  and  honest,  and  beamed  upon  her. 

"Watch  out  fer  yer  dress,"  he  said,  pointing  with  grimy 
hand  to  the  dusty  wheels  and  braces  so  near  her. 

"Let  me  drive,  Bill?"  she  asked. 

"Wai,  now,  I  wisht  I  could,"  he  replied,  dryly.  "You 
sure  can  drive,  miss.  But  drivin'  ain't  all  this  here  job." 

"What  can't  I  do?     I'll  bet  you—" 

65 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

'I  never  seen  a  girl  thet  could  throw  anythin'  straight. 
Did  you?" 

"Well,  not  so  very.  I  forgot  how  you  drove  the 
horses.  .  .  .  Go  ahead.  Don't  let  me  delay  the  harvest." 

Bill  called  sonorously  to  his  twelve  horses,  and  as  they 
bent  and  strained  and  began  to  bob  their  heads,  the  clatter 
ing  roar  filled  the  air.  Also  a  cloud  of  dust  and  thin, 
flying  streams  of  chaff  enveloped  Lenore.  The  high 
stalks  of  barley,  in  wide  sheets,  fell  before  the  cutter  upon 
an  apron,  to  be  carried  by  feeders  into  the  body  of  the 
machine.  The  straw,  denuded  of  its  grain,  came  out  at 
the  rear,  to  be  dropped,  while  the  grain  streamed  out  of  a 
tube  on  the  side  next  to  Lenore,  to  fall  into  an  open  sack. 
It  made  a  short  shift  of  harvesting. 

Lenore  liked  the  even,  nodding  rhythm  of  the  plodding 
horses,  and  the  wray  Bill  threw  a  pebble  from  a  sack  on  his 
seat,  to  hit  this  or  that  horse  not  keeping  in  line  or  pulling 
his  share.  Bill's  aim  was  unerring.  He  never  hit  the 
wrong  horse,  which  would  have  been  the  case  had  he  used  a 
whip.  The  grain  came  out  in  so  tiny  a  stream  that  Lenore 
wondered  how  a  bag  was  ever  filled.  But  she  saw  pres 
ently  that  even  a  tiny  stream,  if  running  steadily,  soon 
made  bulk.  That  was  proof  of  the  value  of  small  things, 
even  atoms. 

No  marvel  was  it  that  Bill  and  his  helper  were  as  grimy 
as  stokers  of  a  furnace.  Lenore  began  to  choke  with  the 
fine  dust  and  to  feel  her  eyes  smart  and  to  see  it  settle  on 
her  hands  and  dress.  She  then  had  appreciation  of  the 
nature  of  a  ten-hour  day  for  workmen  cutting  eighteen 
acres  of  barley.  How  would  they  ever  cut  the  two  thou 
sand  acres  of  wheat  ?  No  wonder  many  men  were  needed. 
Lenore  sympathized  with  the  operators  of  that  harvester- 
thresher,  but  she  did  not  like  the  dirt.  If  she  had  been  a 
man,  though,  that  labor,  hard  as  it  was,  would  have  ap 
pealed  to  her.  Harvesting  the  grain  was  beautiful, 
whether  in  the  old,  slow  method  of  threshing  or  with  one 
of  these  modern  man-saving  machines. 

66 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

She  jumped  off,  and  the  big,  ponderous  thing,  almost 
gifted  with  intelligence,  it  seemed  to  Lenore,  rolled  on 
with  its  whirring  roar,  drawing  its  cloud  of  dust,  and  leav 
ing  behind  a  litter  of  straw. 

It  developed  then  that  Adams  had  walked  along  with 
the  machine,  and  he  now  addressed  her. 

"Will  you  be  staying  here  till  your  father  comes?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  Mr.  Adams.     Why  do  you  ask?" 

"You  oughtn't  come  out  here  alone  or  go  back  alone.  .  .  . 
All  these  strange  men!  Some  of  them  hard  customers  I 
You'll  excuse  me,  miss,  but  this  harvest  is  not  like  other 
harvests." 

"I'll  wait  for  my  father  and  I'll  not  go  out  of  sight, " 
replied  Lenore.  Thanking  the  foreman  for  his  thought- 
fulness,  she  walked  away,  and  soon  she  stood  at  the  edge 
of  the  first  wheat-field. 

The  grain  was  not  yet  ripe,  but  near  at  hand  it  was  a 
pale  gold.  The  wind,  out  of  the  west,  waved  and  swept 
the  wheat,  while  the  almost  imperceptible  shadows 
followed. 

A  road  half  overgrown  with  grass  and  goldenrod  bor 
dered  the  wheat-field,  and  it  wound  away  down  toward  the 
house.  Her  father  appeared  mounted  on  the  white  horse 
he  always  rode.  Lenore  sat  down  in  the  grass  to  wait  for 
him.  Nodding  stalks  of  goldenrod  leaned  to  her  face. 
When  looked  at  closely,  how  truly  gold  their  color!  Yet 
it  was  not  such  a  gold  as  that  of  the  rich  blaze  of  ripe  wheat* 
She  was  admitting  to  her  consciousness  a  jealousy  of  any 
thing  comparable  to  wheat.  And  suddenly  she  confessed 
that  her  natural  love  for  it  had  been  augmented  by  a 
subtle  growing  sentiment.  Not  sentiment  about  the  war 
or  the  need  of  the  Allies  or  meaning  of  the  staff  of  life. 
She  had  sensed  young  Dorn's  passion  for  wheat  and  it  had 
made  a  difference  to  her. 

"No  use  lying  to  myself!"  she  soliloquized.  "I  think 
of  him!  .  t  .  I  can't  help  it.  ...  I  ran  out  here,  wild, 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

restless,  unable  to  reason  .  .  .  just  because  I'd  decided  to 
see  him  again — to  make  sure  I — I  really  didn't  care.  .  .  . 
How  furious — how  ridiculous  I'll  feel — when — when — " 

Lenore  did  not  complete  her  thought,  because  she  was 
not  sure.  Nothing  could  be  any  truer  than  the  fact  that 
she  had  no  idea  how  she  would  feel.  She  began  sensitively 
to  distrust  herself.  She  who  had  always  been  so  sure  of 
motives,  so  contented  with  things  as  they  were,  had  been 
struck  by  an  absurd  fancy  that  haunted  because  it  was 
fiercely  repudiated  and  scorned,  that  would  give  her  no 
rest  until  it  was  proven  false.  But  suppose  it  were  true ! 

A  succeeding  blankness  of  mind  awoke  to  the  clip-clop 
of  hoofs  and  her  father's  cheery  halloo. 

Anderson  dismounted  and,  throwing  his  bridle,  he  sat 
down  heavily  beside  her. 

"You  can  ride  back  home,"  he  said. 

Lenore  knew  she  had  been  reproved  for  her  wandering 
out  there,  and  she  made  a  motion  to  rise.  His  big  hand 
held  her  down. 

"No  hurry,  now  I'm  here.  Grand  day,  ain't  it?  An* 
I  see  the  barley's  goin'.  Them  sacks  look  good  to  me." 

Lenore  waited  with  some  perturbation.  She  had  a 
guilty  conscience  and  she  feared  he  meant  to  quiz  her  about 
her  sudden  change  of  front  regarding  the  Bend  trip.  So 
she  could  not  look  up  and  she  could  not  say  a  word. 

"Jake  says  that  Nash  has  been  tryin'  to  make  up  to 
you.  Any  sense  in  what  he  says?"  asked  her  father, 
bluntly. 

"Why,  hardly.  Oh,  I've  noticed  Nash  is — is  rather 
fresh,  as  Rose  calls  it,"  replied  Lenore,  somewhat  relieved 
at  this  unexpected  query. 

"Yes,  he's  been  makin'  eyes  at  Rose.  She  told  me," 
replied  Anderson. 

"Discharge  him,"  said  Lenore,  forcibly. 

"So  I  ought.  But  let  me  tell  you,  Lenore.  I've  been 
hopin'  to  get  Nash  dead  to  rights." 

"What  more  do  you  want?"  she  demanded. 

68 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"I  mean  regardin'  his  relation  to  the  I.  W.  W.  .  .  . 
Listen.  Here's  the  point.  Nash  has  been  tracked  an* 
caught  in  secret  talks  with  prominent  men  in  this  country. 
Men  of  foreign  blood  an'  mebbe  foreign  sympathies. 
We're  at  the  start  of  big  an'  bad  times  in  the  good  old 
U.  S.  No  one  can  tell  how  bad.  Well,  you  know  my 
position  in  the  Golden  Valley.  I'm  looked  to.  Reckon 
this  I.  W.  W.  has  got  me  a  marked  man.  I'm  packin' 
two  guns  right  now.  An'  you  bet  Jake  is  packin'  the 
same.  We  don't  travel  far  apart  any  more  this  summer." 

Lenore  had  started  shudderingly  and  her  look  showed 
her  voiceless  fear. 

"You  needn't  tell  your  mother,"  he  went  on,  more 
intimately.  "I  can  trust  you  an'  ...  To  come  back  to 
Nash.  He  an'  this  Glidden — you  remember,  one  of  those 
men  at  Dorn's  house — they  are  usin'  gold.  They  must 
have  barrels  of  it.  If  I  could  find  out  where  that  gold 
comes  from!  Probably  they  don't  know.  But  I  might 
find  out  if  men  here  in  our  own  country  are  hatchin'  plots 
with  the  I.  W.  W." 

"Plots!     What  for?"  queried  Lenore,  breathlessly. 

"To  destroy  my  wheat,  to  drive  off  or  bribe  the  harvest- 
hands,  to  cripple  the  crop  yield  in  the  Northwest;  to 
draw  the  militia  here;  in  short,  to  harass  an'  weaken  an' 
slow  down  our  government  in  its  preparation  against 
Germany." 

"Why,  that  is  terrible!"  declared  Lenore. 

"I've  a  hunch  from  Jake — there's  a  whisper  of  a  plot  to 
put  me  out  of  the  way,"  said  Anderson,  darkly. 

"Oh — good  Heavens!  You  don't  mean  it!"  cried 
Lenore,  distractedly. 

"  Sure  I  do.  But  that's  no  way  for  Anderson  s  daughter 
to  take  it.  Our  women  have  got  to  fight,  too.  We've  all 
got  to  meet  these  German  hired  devils  with  their  own 
weapons.  Now,  lass,  you  know  you'll  get  these  wheat- 
lands  of  mine  some  day.  It's  in  my  will.  That's  because 
you,  like  your  dad,  always  loved  the  wheat.  You'd 

69 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

fight,  wouldn't  you,  to  save  your  grain  for  our  soldiers — 
bread  for  your  own  brother  Jim — an'  for  your  own 
land?" 

' '  Fight !  Would  I ?"  burst  out  Lenore,  with  a  passionate 
little  cry. 

"Good!     Now  you're  talkin'!"  exclaimed  her  father. 

"  I'll  find  out  about  this  Nash— if  you'll  let  me,"  declared 
Lenore,  as  if  inspired. 

"How?     What  do  you  mean,  girl?" 

"I'll  encourage  him.  I'll  make  him  think  I'm  a  wishy- 
washy  moonstruck  girl,  smitten  with  him.  All's  fair  in 
war!  ...  If  he  means  ill  by  my  father — " 

Anderson  muttered  low  under  his  breath  and  his  big 
hand  snapped  hard  at  the  nodding  goldenrod. 

"For  my  sake — to  help  me — you'd  encourage  Nash — 
flirt  with  him  a  little — find  out  all  you  could?" 

"Yes,  I  would!"  she  cried,  deliberately.  But  she 
wanted  to  cover  her  face  with  her  hands.  She  trembled 
slightly  -f-^en  grew  cold,  with  a  sickening  disgust  at  this 
strange,  new,  up-rising  self. 

"Wait  a  minute  before  you  say  too  much,"  went  on 
Anderson.  "You're  my  best-beloved  child,  my  Lenore, 
the  lass  I've  been  so  proud  of  all  my  life.  I'd  spill  blood  to 
avenge  an  insult  to  you.  ,  .  .  But,  Lenore,  we've  entered 
upon  a  terrible  war0  People  out  here,  especially  the 
women,  don't  realize  it  yet.  But  you  must  realize  it. 
When  I  said  good-by  to  Jim,  my  son,  I — I  felt  I'd  never 
look  upon  his  face  again!  ...  I  gave  him  up.  I  could 
have  held  him  back — got  exemption  for  him.  But,  no, 
by  God!  I  gave  him  up — to  make  safety  and  happiness 
and  prosperity  for — say,  your  children,  an'  Rose's,  an' 
Kathleen's.  .  .  .  I'm  workin'  now  for  the  future.  So 
must  every  loyal  man  an'  every  loyal  woman!  We  love 
our  own  country.  An'  I  ask  you  to  see  as  I  see  the  terrible 
danger  to  that  country.  Think  of  you  an'  Rose  an' 
Kathleen  bein'  treated  like  those  poor  Belgian  girls! 
Well,  you'd  get  that  an'  worse  if  the  Germans  won  this 

70 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

war.  An'  the  point  is,  for  us  to  win,  every  last  one  of  us 
must  fight,  sacrifice  to  that  end,  an'  hang  together." 

Anderson  paused  huskily  and  swallowed  hard  while  he 
looked  away  across  the  fields.  Lenore  felt  herself  drawn 
by  an  irresistible  power.  The  west  wind  rustled  through 
the  waving  wheat.  She  heard  the  whir  of  the  threshers. 
Yet  all  seemed  unreal.  Her  father's  passion  had  made  this 
place  another  world. 

"So  much  for  that,"  resumed  Anderson.  "I'm  goin' 
to  do  my  best.  An'  I  may  make  blunders.  I'll  play  the 
game  as  it's  dealt  out  to  me.  Lord  knows  I  feel  all  in 
the  dark.  But  it's  the  nature  of  the  effort,  the  spirit, 
that  '11  count.  I'm  goin'  to  save  most  of  the  wheat  on 
my  ranches.  An'  bein*  a  Westerner  who  can  see  ahead,  I 
know  there's  goiii'  to  be  blood  spilled.  .  .  .  I'd  give  a  lot  to 
know  who  sent  this  Nash  spyin'  on  me.  I'm  satisfied 
now  he's  an  agent,  a  spy,  a  plotter  for  a  gang  that's  marked 
me.  I  can't  prove  it  yet,  but  I  feel  it.  Maybe  nothin* 
worth  while — worth  the  trouble — will  ever  be  found  out 
from  him.  But  I  don't  figure  that  way.  I  say  play  their 
own  game  an'  take  a  chance.  ...  If  you  encouraged  Nash 
you'd  probably  find  out  all  about  him.  The  worst  of  it  is 
could  you  be  slick  enough?  Could  a  girl  as  fine  an' 
square  an'  high-spirited  as  you  ever  double-cross  a  man, 
even  a  scoundrel  like  Nash?  I  reckon  you  could,  con- 
siderin'  the  motive.  Women  are  wonderful.  .  .  .  Well, 
if  you  can  fool  him,  make  him  think  he's  a  winner,  flatter 
him  till  he  swells  up  like  a  toad,  promise  to  elope  with  him, 
be  curious,  jealous,  make  him  tell  where  he  goes,  whom  he 
meets,  show  his  letters,  all  without  ever  sufferin'  his  hand 
on  you,  I'll  give  my  consent.  I'd  think  more  of  you  for 
it.  Now  the  question  is,  can  you  do  it?" 

"Yes,"  whispered  Lenore. 

' '  Good !' '  exploded  Anderson,  in  a  great  relief.  Then  he 
began  to  mop  his  wet  face.  He  arose,  showing  the  weight 
of  heavy  guns  in  his  pockets,  and  he  gazed  across  the 
wheat-fields.  "That  wheat  '11  be  ripe  in  a  week.  It  sure 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

looks  fine.  .  .  .  Lenore,  you  ride  back  home  now.  Don't 
let  Jake  pump  you.  He's  powerful  curious.  An'  I'll 
go  give  these  I.  W.  W.'s  a  first  dose  of  Anderson." 

He  turned  away  without  looking  at  her,  and  he  hesitated, 
bending  over  to  pluck  a  stem  of  goldenrod. 

"Lass— you're— you're  like  your  mother,"  he  said, 
Unsteadily.  "An'  she  helped  me  win  out  durin'  my 
straggle  here.  You're  brave  an'  you're  big." 

Lenore  wanted  to  say  something,  to  show  her  feeling, 
to  make  her  task  seem  lighter,  but  she  could  not  speak. 

"We're  pards  now — with  no  secrets,"  he  continued, 
with  a  different  note  in  his  voice.  "An'  I  want  you  to 
know  that  it  ain't  likely  Nash  or  Glidden  will  get  out  of 
this  country  alive." 


CHAPTER  VH 

HTHREE  days  later,  Lenore  accompanied  her  father  on 
I  the  ride  to  the  Bend  country.  »She  sat  in  the  back 
seat  of  the  car  with  Jake — an  arrangement  very  gratify 
ing  to  the  cowboy,  but  received  with  ill-concealed  dis 
pleasure  by  the  driver,  Nash.  They  had  arranged  to  start 
at  sunrise,  and  it  became  manifest  that  Nash  had  expected 
Lenore  to  sit  beside  him  all  during  the  long  ride.  It  was 
her  father,  however,  who  took  the  front  seat,  and  behind 
Nash's  back  he  had  slyly  winked  at  Lenore,  as  if  to  compli 
ment  her  on  the  evident  success  of  their  deep  plot.  Lenore, 
at  the  first  opportunity  that  presented,  shot  Nash  a  warn 
ing  glance  which  was  sincere  enough.  Jake  had  begun  to 
use  keen  eyes,  and  there  was  no  telling  what  he  might  do. 

The  morning  was  cool,  sweet,  fresh,  with  a  red  sun 
presaging  a  hot  day.  The  big  car  hummed  like  a  droning 
bee  and  seemed  to  cover  the  miles  as  if  by  magic.  Lenore 
sat  with  face  uncovered,  enjoying  the  breeze  and  the 
endless  colorful  scene  flashing  by,  listening  to  Jake's 
amusing  comments,  and  trying  to  keep  back  thought  of 
what  discovery  might  await  her  before  the  end  of  this  day. 

Once  across  the  Copper  River,  they  struck  the  gradual 
ascent,  and  here  the  temperature  began  to  mount  and  the 
dust  to  fly.  Lenore  drew  her  veils  close  and,  leaning 
comfortably  back,  she  resigned  herself  to  wait  and  to 
endure. 

By  the  flight  of  a  crow  it  was  about  a  hundred  miles 
from  Anderson's  ranch  to  Palmer;  but  by  the  round 
about  roads  necessary  to  take  the  distance  was  a  great 
deal  longer.  Lenore  was  well  aware  when  they  got  up  on 
the  desert,  and  the  time  came  when  she  thought  she  would 
suffocate.  There  appeared  to  be  intolerable  hours  in 
which  no  one  spoke  and  only  the  hum  and  creak  of  the 

73 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

machine  throbbed  in  her  ears.  She  could  not  see  through 
her  veils  and  did  not  part  them  until  a  stop  was  made  at 
Palmer. 

Her  father  got  out,  sputtering  and  gasping,  shaking  the 
dust  in  clouds  from  his  long  linen  coat.  Jake,  who  always 
said  he  lived  on  dust  and  heat,  averred  it  .was  not  exactly 
a  regular  fine  day.  Lenore  looked  out,  trying  to  get  a 
breath  of  air.  Nash  busied  himself  with  the  hot  engine. 

The  little  country  town  appeared  dead,  and  buried  under 
dust.  There  was  not  a  person  in  sight  nor  a  sound  to  be 
heard.  The  sky  resembled  molten  lead,  with  a  blazing 
center  too  bright  for  the  gaze  of  man. 

Anderson  and  Jake  went  into  the  little  hotel  to  get  some 
refreshments.  Lenore  preferred  to  stay  in  the  car,  saying 
she  wanted  only  a  cool  drink.  The  moment  the  two  men 
were  out  of  sight  Nash  straightened  up  to  gaze  darkly  and 
hungrily  at  Lenore. 

"This  's  as  good  a  chance  as  we'll  get/*  he  said,  in  an 
«ager,  hurried  whisper. 

"For  what?"  asked  Lenore,  aghast. 

"To  run  off,"  he  replie'd,  huskily. 

Lenore  had  proceeded  so  cleverly  to  carry  out  her 
•scheme  that  in  three  days  Nash  had  begun  to  implore 
and  demand  that  she  elope  with  him.  He  had  been  so 
much  of  a  fool.  But  she  as  yet  had  found  out  but  little 
about  him.  His  right  name  was  Ruenke.  He  was  a 
socialist.  He  had  plenty  of  money  and  hinted  of  mysteri 
ous  sources  for  more. 

At  this  Lenore  hid  her  face,  and  while  she  fell  back  in 
pretended  distress,  she  really  wanted  to  laugh.  She  had 
learned  something  new  in  these  few  days,  and  that  was  to 
hate. 

"Oh  no!  no!"  she  murmured.  "I — I  can't  think  of 
that— yet." 

"But  why  not?"  he  demanded,  in  shrill  violence.  His 
gloved  hand  clenched  on  the  tool  he  held. 

"Mother  has  been  so  unhappy — with  my  brother  Jim — 

74 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

off  to  the  war.  I — I  just  couldn't — now.  Harry,  you 
must  give  me  time.  It's  all  so — so  sudden.  Please 
wait!" 

Nash  appeared  divided  between  two  emotions.  Lenore 
watched  him  from  behind  her  parted  veil.  She  had  been 
astonished  to  find  out  that,  side  by  side  with  her  intense 
disgust  and  shame  at  the  part  she  was  playing,  there  was  a 
strong,  keen,  passionate  interest  in  it,  owing  to  the  fact 
that,  though  she  could  prove  little  against  this  man,  her 
woman's  intuition  had  sensed  his  secret  deadly  antagonism 
toward  her  father.  By  little  significant  mannerisms  and 
revelations  he  had  more  and  more  betrayed  the  German  in 
him.  She  saw  it  in  his  overbearing  conceit,  his  almost 
instant  assumption  that  he  was  her  master.  At  first 
Lenore  feared  him,  but,  as  she  learned  to  hate  him  she 
lost  her  fear.  She  had  never  been  alone  with  him  except 
under  such  circumstances  as  this ;  and  she  had  decided  she 
would  not  be. 

"Wait?"  he  was  expostulating.  "But  it's  going  to 
get  hot  for  me." 

"Oh!  .  .  .  What  do  you  mean?"  she  begged.  "You 
frighten  me." 

"Lenore,  the  I.  W.  W.  will  have  hard  sledding  in  this 
wheat  country-.  I  belong  to  that.  I  told  you.  But  the 
union  is  run  differently  this  summer.  And  I've  got  work 
to  do — that  I  don't  like,  since  I  fell  in  love  with  you. 
Come,  run  off  with  me  and  I'll  give  it  up." 

Lenore  trembled  at  this  admission.  She  appeared  to  be 
close  upon  further  discovery. 

" Harry,  how  wildly  you  talk!"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
hardly  know  you.  You  frighten  me  with  your  mysterious 
talk.  .  .  .  Have — a — a  little  consideration  for  me." 

Nash  strode  back  to  lean  into  the  car.  Behind  his  huge 
goggles  his  eyes  gleamed.  His  gloved  hand  closed  hard,  on 
her  arm. 

"It  is  sudden.     It's  got  to  be  sudden,"  he  said,  in  fierce 
undertone .     ' '  You  must  trust  me . " 
6  75 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"I  will.  But  you  must  confide  in  me,"  she  replied, 
earnestly.  "I'm  not  quite  a  fool.  You're  rushing  me — 
too — too — " 

Suddenly  he  released  her,  threw  up  his  hand,  then 
quickly  stepped  back  to  the  front  of  the  car.  Jake  stood 
in  the  door  of  the  hotel.  He  had  seen  that  action  of 
Nash's.  Then  Anderson  appeared,  followed  by  a  boy  car 
rying  a  glass  of  water  for  Lenore.  They  approached  the 
car,  Jake  sauntering  last,  with  his  curious  gaze  on  Nash. 

11  Go  in  an'  get  a  bite  an'  a  drink,"  said  Anderson  to  the 
driver.  "An'  hurry." 

Nash  obeyed.  Jake's  eyes  never  left  him  until  he 
entered  the  door.  Then  Jake  stepped  in  beside  Lenore. 

"Thet  water's  wet,  anyhow,"  he  drawled. 

"We'll  get  a  good  cold  drink  at  Dorn's,"  said  Anderson. 
"Lass,  how  are  you  makin'  it?" 

"Fine,"  she  replied,  smiling. 

"So  I  seen,"  significantly  added  Jake,  with  a  piercing 
glance  at  her. 

Lenore  realized  then  that  she  would  have  to  confide  in 
Jake  or  run  the  risk  of  having  violence  done  to  Nash.  So 
she  nodded  wisely  at  the  cowboy  and  winked  mischiev 
ously,  and,  taking  advantage  of  Anderson's  entering  the 
car,  she  whispered  in  Jake's  ear:  "I'm  finding  out  things. 
Tell  you— later." 

The  cowboy  looked  anything  but  convinced;  and  he 
glanced  with  narrowed  eyes  at  Nash  as  that  worthy 
hurried  back  to  the  car. 

With  a  lurch  and  a  leap  the  car  left  Palmer  behind  in  a 
cloud  of  dust.  The  air  was  furnace-hot,  oppressive,  and 
exceedingly  dry.  Lenore's  lips  smarted  so  that  she 
continually  moistened  them.  On  all  sides  stretched 
dreary  parched  wheat-fields.  Anderson  shook  his  head 
sadly.  Jake  said:  "Ain't  thet  too  bad?  Not  half 
growed,  an'  sure  too  late  now." 

Near  at  hand  Lenore  saw  the  short  immature  dirty- 
whitish  wheat,  and  she  realized  that  it  was  ruined. 

76 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"It's  been  gettin'  worse,  Jake,"  remarked  Anderson. 
"Most  of  this  won't  be  cut  at  all.  An'  what  is  cut  won't 
yield  seedlings.  I  see  a  yellow  patch  here  an'  there 
on  the  north  slopes,  but  on  the  most  part  the  Bend's 
a  failure." 

"Father,  you  remember  Dorn's  section,  that  promised 
so  well?"  asked  Lenore. 

"Yes.  But  it  promised  only  in  case  of  rain.  I  look 
for  the  worst,"  replied  Anderson,  regretfully. 

"It  looks  like  storm-clouds  over  there,"  said  Lenore, 
pointing  far  ahead. 

Through  the  drifting  veils  of  heat,  far  across  the  bare, 
dreamy  hills  of  fallow  and  the  blasted  fields  of  wheat, 
stood  up  some  huge  white  columnar  clouds,  a  vivid  con 
trast  to  the  coppery  sky. 

"By  George!  there's  a  thunderhead!"  exclaimed  Ander 
son.  "Jake,  what  do  you  make  of  that?" 

"Looks  good  to  me,"  replied  Jake,  who  was  always 
hopeful. 

Lenore  bore  the  hot  wind  and  the  fine,  choking  dust 
without  covering  her  face.  She  wanted  to  see  all  the  hills 
and  valleys  of  this  desert  of  wheat.  Her  heart  beat  a 
little  faster  as,  looking  across  that  waste  on  waste  of  heroic 
labor,  she  realized  she  was  nearing  the  end  of  a  ride  that 
might  be  momentous  for  her.  The  very  aspect  of  that 
wide,  treeless  expanse,  with  all  its  overwhelming  meaning, 
seemed  to  make  her  a  stronger  and  more  thoughtful  girl. 
If  those  endless  wheat-fields  were  indeed  ruined,  what  a 
pity,  what  a  tragedy!  Not  only  would  young  Dorn  be 
ruined,  but  perhaps  many  other  toiling  farmers.  Some 
how  Lenore  felt  no  hopeless  certainty  of  ruin  for  the  young 
man  in  whom  she  was  interested. 

"There,  on  that  slope!"  spoke  up  Anderson,  pointing  to 
a  field  which  was  yellow  in  contrast  to  the  surrounding 
gray  field.  "There's  a  half -section  of  fair  wheat." 

But  such  tinges  of  harvest  gold  were  not  many  in  half  a 
dozen  miles  of  dreary  hills.  Where  were  the  beautiful 

77 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

shadows  in  the  wheat  ?  wondered  Lenore.     Not  a  breath  of 
wind  appeared  to  stir  across  those  fields. 

As  the  car  neared  the  top  of  a  hill  the  road  curved  into 
another,  and  Lenore  saw  a  dusty  flash  of  another  car 
passing  on  ahead. 

Suddenly  Jake  leaned  forward. 

"Boss,  I  seen  somethin'  throwed  out  of  thet  car — into 
the  wheat,"  he  said. 

"What? — Mebbe  it  was  a  bottle,"  replied  Anderson, 
peering  ahead. 

"Nope.  Sure  wasn't  thet.  .  .  .  There!  I  seen  it  again. 
Watch,  boss!" 

Lenore  strained  her  eyes  and  felt  a  stir  of  her  pulses. 
Jake's  voice  was  perturbing.  Was  it  strange  that  Nash, 
slowed  up  a  little  where  there  was  no  apparent  need? 
Then  Lenore  saw  a  hand  flash  out  of  the  side  of  the  car 
ahead  and  throw  a  small,  glinting  object  into  the  wheat. 

' '  There !     Seen  it  again, ' '  said  Jake. 

"I  saw!  ...  Jake,  mark  that  spot.  .  .  .  Nash,  slow 
down,"  yelled  Anderson. 

Lenore  gathered  from  the  look  of  her  father  and  the 
cowboy  that  something  was  amiss,  but  she  could  not  guess 
what  it  might  be.  Nash  bent  sullenly  at  his  task  of  driving. 

"I  reckon  about  here,"  said  Jake,  waving  his  hand. 

"Stop  her,"  ordered  Anderson,  and  as  the  car  came  to  a 
halt  he  got  out,  followed  by  Jake. 

"Wai,  I  marked  it  by  thet  rock,"  declared  the  cowboy. 

"So  did  I,"  responded  Anderson.  "Let's  get  over  the 
fence  an'  find  what  it  was  they  threw  in  there." 

Jake  rested  a  lean  hand  on  a  post  and  vaulted  the  fence. 
But  Anderson  had  to  climb  laboriously  and  painfully  over 
the  barbed-wire  obstruction.  Lenore  marveled  at  his 
silence  and  his  persistence.  Anderson  hated  wire  fences. 
Presently  he  got  over,  and  then  he  divided  his  time  be 
tween  searching  in  the  wheat  and  peering  after  the 
strange  car  that  was  drawing  far  away. 

Lenore  saw  Jake  pick  up  something  and  scrutinize  it. 

' 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"  I'll  be  dog-goned !' '  he  muttered.  Then  he  approached 
Anderson.  "What  is  thet?" 

"Jake,  you  can  lambaste  me  if  I  ever  saw  the  likes," 
replied  Anderson.  "But  it  looks  bad.  Let's  rustle  after 
that  car." 

As  Anderson  clambered  into  his  seat  once  more  he 
looked  dark  and  grim. 

"Catch  that  car  ahead,"  he  tersely  ordered  Nash. 
Whereupon  the  driver  began  to  go  through  his  usual 
motions  in  starting. 

"  Lenore,  what  do  you  make  of  this?"  queried  Anderson, 
turning  to  show  her  a  small  cake  of  some  gray  substance, 
soft  and  wet  to  the  touch. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  replied  Lenore,  wonderingly. 
"Do  you?" 

"No.  An' I'd  give  a  lot —  Say,  Nash,  hurry!  Over 
haul  that  car!" 

Anderson  turned  to  see  why  his  order  had  not  been 
obeyed.  He  looked  angry.  Nash  made  hurried  motions. 
The  car  trembled,  the  machinery  began  to  whir — then 
came  a  tremendous  buzzing  roar,  a  violent  shaking  of  the 
car,  followed  by  sharp  explosions,  and  silence. 

"You  stripped  the  gears!"  shouted  Anderson,  with  the 
red  fading  out  of  his  face. 

"No;  but  something's  wrong,"  replied  Nash.  He  got 
out  to  examine  the  engine. 

Anderson  manifestly  controlled  strong  feeling.  Lenore 
saw  Jake's  hand  go  to  her  father's  shoulder.  "Boss," 
he  whispered,  "we  can't  ketch  thet  car  now."  Anderson 
resigned  himself,  averted  his  face  so  that  he  could  not  see 
Nash,  who  was  tinkering  with  the  engine.  Lenore  believed 
then  that  Nash  had  deliberately  stalled  the  engine  or 
disordered  something,  so  as  to  permit  the  escape  of  the 
strange  car  ahead.  She  saw  it  turn  off  the  long,  straight 
road  ahead  and  disappear  to  the  right.  After  some 
minutes'  delay  Nash  resumed  his  seat  and  started  the  car 
once  more. 

79 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

From  the  top  of  the  next  hill  Lenore  saw  the  Dorn  farm 
and  home.  All  the  wheat  looked  parched.  She  remem 
bered,  however,  that  the  section  of  promising  grain  lay  on 
the  north  slope,  and  therefore  out  of  sight  from  where  she 
was. 

"Looks  as  bad  as  any,"  said  Anderson.  "Good-by  to 
my  money." 

Lenore  shut  her  eyes  and  thought  of  herself,  her  in 
ward  state.  She  seemed  calm,  and  glad  to  have  that  first 
part  of  the  journey  almost  ended.  Her  motive  in  coming 
was  not  now  the  impelling  thing  that  had  actuated  her. 

When  next  the  car  slowed  down  she  heard  her  father  say, 
"Drive  in  by  the  house." 

Then  Lenore,  opening  her  eyes,  saw  the  gate,  the  trim 
little  orchard  with  its  scant  shade,  the  gray  old  weather- 
beaten  house  which  she  remembered  so  well.  The  big 
porch  looked  inviting,  as  it  was  shady  and  held  an  old 
rocking-chair  and  a  bench  with  blue  cushions.  A  door 
stood  wide  open.  No  one  appeared  to  be  on  the  premises. 

"Nash,  blow  your  horn  an'  then  hunt  around  for  some 
body,"  said  Anderson.  "Come,  get  out,  Lenore.  You 
must  be  half  dead." 

"Oh  no.  Only  half  dust  and  half  fire,"  replied  Lenore, 
laughing,  as  she  stepped  out.  What  a  relief  to  get  rid  of 
coat,  veils,  bonnet,  and  to  sit  on  a  shady  porch  where  a 
faint  breeze  blew!  Just  at  that  instant  she  heard  a  low, 
distant  rumbling.  Thunder!  It  thrilled  her.  Jake 
brought  her  a  cold,  refreshing  drink,  and  she  sent  him  back 
after  another.  She  wet  her  handkerchief  and  bathed  her 
hot  face.  It  was  indeed  very  comfortable  there  after 
that  long  hot  ride. 

"Miss  Lenore,  I  seen  thet  Nash  pawin'  you,"  said  the 
cowboy,  "an'  by  Gosh!  I  couldn't  believe  my  eyes!" 

4 'Not  so  loud!  Jake,  the  young  gentleman  imagines 
I'm  in  love  with  him,"  replied  Lenore. 

"Wall,  I'll  remove  his  imaginin',"  declared  Jake,  coolly. 

"  Jake,  you  will  do  nothing." 

So 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"  Ahuh !  Then  you  air  in  love  with  him?" 
Lenore  was  compelled  to  explain  to  this  loyal  cowboy 
just  what  the  situation  meant.  Whereupon  Jake  swore 
his  amaze,  and  said,  "I'm  a-goin'  to  lick  him,  anyhow, 
fer  thet!"  And  he  caught  up  the  tin  cup  and  shuffled 
away. 

Footsteps  and  voices  sounded  on  the  path,  upon  which 
presently  appeared  Anderson  and  young  Dorn. 

' '  Father's  gone  to  Wheatly , ' '  he  was  saying.  ' '  But  I'm 
glad  to  tell  you  we'll  pay  twenty  thousand  dollars  on  the 
debt  as  soon  as  we  harvest.  If  it  rains  we'll  pay  it  all 
and  have  thirty  thousand  left." 

'  *  Good !  I  sure  hope  it  rains.  An'  that  thunder  sounds 
hopeful,"  responded  Anderson. 

"It's  been  hopeful  like  that  for  several  days,  but  no 
rain,"  said  Dorn.  And  then,  espying  Lenore,  he  seemed 
startled  out  of  his  eagerness.  He  flushed  slightly.  "I — 
I  didn't  see — you  had  brought  your  daughter." 

He  greeted  her  somewhat  bashfully.  And  Lenore  re 
turned  the  greeting  calmly,  watching  him  steadily  and 
waiting  for  the  nameless  sensations  she  had  imagined 
would  attend  this  meeting.  But  whatever  these  might  be, 
they  did  not  come  to  overwhelm  her.  The  gladness  of 
his  voice,  as  he  had  spoken  so  eagerly  to  her  father  about 
the  debt,  had  made  her  feel  very  kindly  toward  him.  It 
might  have  been  natural  for  a  young  man  to  resent  this 
dragging  debt.  But  he  was  fine.  She  observed,  as  he  sat 
down,  that,  once  the  smile  and  flush  left  his  face,  he  seemed 
somewhat  thinner  and  older  than  she  had  pictured  him. 
A  shadow  lay  in  his  eyes  and  his  lips  were  sad.  He  had 
evidently  been  working,  upon  their  arrival.  He  wore 
overalls,  dusty  and  ragged;  his  arms,  bare  to  the  elbow, 
were  brown  and  muscular;  his  thin  cotton  shirt  was  wet 
with  sweat  and  it  clung  to  his  powerful  shoulders. 

Anderson  surveyed  the  young  man  with  friendly  glance. 
"What's  your  first  name?"  he  queried,  with  his  blunt 
frankness. 

*S 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Kurt,"  was  the  reply. 

"Is  that  American?" 

"No.  Neither  is  Dorn.  But  Kurt  Dorn  is  an  Ameri 
can." 

"Hum!  So  I  see,  an'  I'm  powerful  glad.  .  .  .  An" 
you've  saved  the  big  section  of  promisin'  wheat?" 

"Yes.  We've  been  lucky.  It's  the  best  and  finest 
wheat  father  ever  raised.  If  it  rains  the  yield  will  go  sixty 
bushels  to  the  acre." 

' '  Sixty  ?     Whew !"  ejaculated  Anderson. 

Lenore  smiled  at  these  wheat  men,  and  said:  "  It  surely 
will  rain — and  likely  storm  to-day.  I  am  a  prophet  who 
never  fails." 

"By  George!  that's  true!  Lenore  has  anybody  beat 
when  it  comes  to  figurin'  the  weather,"  declared  Anderson. 

Dorn  looked  at  her  without  speaking,  but  his  smile 
seemed  to  say  that  she  could  not  help  being  a  prophet  of 
good,  of  hope,  of  joy. 

"Say,  Lenore,  how  many  bushels  in  a  section  at  sixty 
per  acre?"  went  on  Anderson. 

"Thirty-eight  thousand  four  nundred,"  replied  Lenore. 

"An'  what  '11  you  sell  for?"  asked  Anderson  of  Dorn. 

"Father  has  sold  at  two  dollars  and  twenty-five  cents  a 
bushel,"  replied  Dorn. 

"Good!  But  he  ought  to  have  waited.  The  govern 
ment  will  set  a  higher  price.  .  . .  How  much  will  that  come 
to,  Lenore?" 

Dorn's  smile,  as  he  watched  Lenore  do  her  mental  arith 
metic,  attested  to  the  fact  that  he  already  had  figured  out 
the  sum. 

"Eighty-six  thousand  four  hundred  dollars,"  replied 
Lenore .  "Is  that  right ? ' ' 

"An'  you'll  have  thirty  thousand  dollars  left  after  all 
debts  are  paid?"  inquired  Anderson. 

"Yes,  sir.  I  can  hardly  realize  it.  That's  a  fortune — 
for  one  section  of  wheat.  But  we've  had  four  bad  seasons. 
-  .  ,  Oh,  if  it  only  rains  to-day!" 

82 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Lenore  turned  her  cheek  to  the  faint  west  wind.  And 
then  she  looked  long  at  the  slowly  spreading  clouds,  white 
and  beautiful,  high  up  near  the  sky-line,  and  dark  and 
forbidding  down  along  the  horizon. 

"I  knew  a  girl  who  could  feel  things  move  when  no  one 
else  could/'  said  Lenore.  "  I'm  sensitive  like  that — at  least 
about  wind  and  rain.  Right  now  I  can  feel  rain  in  the 
air." 

"  Then  you  have  brought  me  luck,"  said  Dorn,  earnestly. 
"  Indeed  I  guess  my  luck  has  turned.  •  I  hated  the  idea  of 
going  away  with  that  debt  unpaid." 

"Are  you — going  away?"  asked  Lenore,  in  surprise. 

"Yes,  rather,"  he  replied,  with  a  short,  sardonic  laugh. 
He  fumbled  in  a  pocket  of  his  overalls  and  drew  forth  a 
paper  which  he  opened.  A  flame  burned  the  fairness  from 
his  face;  his  eyes  darkened  and  shone  with  peculiar 
intensity  of  pride.  "I  was  the  first  man  drafted  in  this 
Bend  country.  .  .  .  My  number  was  the  first  called!" 

"  Drafted!"  echoed  Lenore,  and  she  seemed  to  be  stand 
ing  on  the  threshold  of  an  amazing  and  terrible  truth. 

"Lass,  we  forget,"  said  her  father,  rather  thickly. 

"Oh,  but — why?"  cried  Lenore.  She  had  voiced  the 
same  poignant  appeal  to  her  brother  Jim.  Why  need  he 
— why  must  he  go  to  war?  What  for?  And  Jim  had 
called  out  a  bitter  curse  on  the  Germans  he  meant  to  kill. 

"Why?"  returned  Dorn,  with  the  sad,  thoughtful 
shadow  returning  to  his  eyes.  "How  many  times  have  I 
asked  myself  that?  ...  In  one  way,  I  don't  know.  .  .  . 
I  haven't  told  father  yet !  .  .  .  It's  not  for  his  sake.  .  .  . 
But  when  I  think  deeply — when  I  can  feel  and  see — I 
mean  I'm  going  for  my  country.  .  .  .  For  you  and  your 
sisters." 

Like  a  soldier  then  Lenore  received  her  mortal  blow 
facing  him  who  dealt  it,  and  it  was  a  sudden  overwhelming 
realization  of  love.  No  confusion,  no  embarrassment,  no 
shame  attended  the  agony  of  that  revelation.  Outwardly 
she  did  not  seem  to  change  at  all.  She  felt  her  father's 

83 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

eyes  upon  her;  but  she  had  no  wish  to  hide  the  tumult  of 
her  heart.  The  moment  made  her  a  woman.  Where  was 
the  fulfilment  of  those  vague,  stingingly  sweet,  dreamy 
fancies  of  love?  Where  was  her  maiden  reserve,  that  she 
so  boldly  recognized  an  unsolicited  passion?  Her  eyes 
met  Dorn's  steadily,  and  she  felt  some  vital  and  compelling 
spirit  pass  from  her  to  him.  She  saw  him  struggle  with 
what  he  could  not  understand.  It  was  his  glance  that 
wavered  and  fell,  his  hand  that  trembled,  his  breast  that 
heaved.  She  loved  him.  There  had  been  no  beginning. 
Always  he  had  lived  in  her  dreams.  And  like  her  brother 
he  was  going  to  kill  and  to  be  killed. 

Then  Lenore  gazed  away  across  the  wheat-fields.  The 
shadows  came  waving  toward  her.  A  stronger  breeze 
fanned  her  cheeks.  The  heavens  were  darkening  and  low 
thunder  rolled  along  the  battlements  of  the  great  clouds. 

"Say,  Kurt,  what  do  you  make  of  this?"  asked  Ander 
son.  Lenore,  turning,  saw  her  father  hold  out  the  little 
gray  cake  that  Jake  had  found  in  the  wheat-field. 

Young  Dorn  seized  it  quickly,  felt  and  smelled  and 
bit  it. 

"Where'd  you  get  this?"  he  asked,  with  excitement. 

Anderson  related  the  circumstance  of  its  discovery. 

"It's  a  preparation,  mostly  phosphorus,"  replied  Dorn. 
"When  the  moisture  evaporates  it  will  ignite — set  fire  to 
any  dry  substance.  .  .  .  That  is  a  trick  of  the  I.  W.  W.  to 
burn  the  wheat-fields." 

"By  all  that's  !"  swore  Anderson,  with  his  jaw 

bulging.  "Jake  an'  I  knew  it  meant  bad.  But  we 
didn't  know  what." 

"I've  been  expecting  tricks  of  all  kinds,"  said  Dorn. 
"I  have  four  men  watching  the  section." 

"Good!  Say,  that  car  turned  off  to  the  right  back 
here  some  miles.  .  .  .  But,  worse  luck,  the  I.  W.  W.'s  can 
work  at  night." 

"We'll  watch  at  night,  too,"  replied  Dorn. 

Lenore  was  conscious  of  anger  encroaching  upon  the 

84 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

melancholy  splendor  of  her  emotions,  and  the  change  was 
bitter. 

1  'When  the  rain  comes,  won't  it  counteract  the  ignition 
of  that  phosphorus?"  she  asked,  eagerly,  for  she  knew 
that  rain  would  come. 

"Only  for  the  time  being.  It  '11  be  just  as  dry  this 
time  to-morrow  as  it  is  now." 

"Then  the  wheat's  goiii'  to  burn,"  declared  Anderson, 
grimly.  "If  that  trick  has  been  worked  all  over  this 
country  you're  goin'  to  have  worse  'n  a  prairie  fire.  The 
job  on  hand  is  to  save  this  one  section  that  has  a  fortune 
tied  up  in  it." 

"Mr.  Anderson,  that  job  looks  almost  hopeless,  in  the 
light  of  this  phosphorus  trick.  What  on  earth  can  be 
done?  I've  four  men.  I  can't  hire  any  more,  because  I 
can't  trust  these  strangers.  And  how  can  four  men — or 
five,  counting  me,  watch  a  square  mile  of  wheat  day  and 
night?" 

The  situation  looked  hopeless  to  Lenore  and  she  was 
sick.  What  cruel  fates  toyed  with  this  young  farmer! 
He  seemed  to  be  sinking  under  this  last  crowning  blow. 
There  in  the  sky,  rolling  up  and  rumbling,  was  the  long- 
deferred  rain-storm  that  meant  freedom  from  debt,  and  a 
fortune  besides.  But  of  what  avail  the  rain  if  it  was  to 
rush  the  wheat  to  full  bursting  measure  only  for  the  infernal 
touch  of  the  foreigner? 

Anderson,  however,  was  no  longer  a  boy.  He  had  dealt 
with  many  and  many  a  trial.  Never  was  he  plunged  into 
despair  until  after  the  dread  crisis  had  come  to  pass.  His 
red  forehead,  frowning  and  ridged  with  swelling  blood 
vessels,  showed  the  bent  of  his  mind. 

"Oh,  it  is  hard!"  said  Lenore  to  Dorn.  "I'm  so  sorry! 
But  don't  give  up.  While  there's  life  there's  hope!" 

He  looked  up  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Thank  you.  ...  I  did  weaken.  You  see  I've  let 
myself  believe  too  much— for  dad's  sake.  I  don't  care 
about  the  money  for  myself.  .  .  .  Money!  What  good 

85 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

will  money  be  to  me — now?  It's  over  for  me.  .  .  .  To 
get  the  wheat  cut — harvested — that's  all  I  hoped.  .  .  . 
The  army — war — France — I  go  to  be — " 

"Hush!"  whispered  Lenore,  and  she  put  a  soft  hand 
upon  his  lips,  checking  the  end  of  that  bitter  speech.  She 
felt  him  start,  and  the  look  she  met  pierced  her  soul. 
"Hush!  .  .  .  It's  going  to  rain!  .  .  .  Father  will  find 
some  way  to  save  the  wheat!  .  .  .  And  you  are  coming 
home — after  the  war!" 

He  crushed  her  hand  to  his  hot  lips. 

"You  make  me — ashamed.  I  won't  give — up,"  he 
said,  brokenly.  "And  when  I'm  over — there — in  the 
trenches,  I'll  think-—" 

"Dorn,  listen  to  this,"  rang  out  Anderson.  "We'll 
fool  that  I.  W.  W.  gang.  .  .  .  It's  a-goin'  to  rain.  So  far 
so  good.  To-morrow  you  take  this  cake  of  phosphorus 
an'  ride  around  all  over  the  country.  Show  it  an'  tell 
the  farmers  their  wheat's  goin'  to  burn.  An'  offer  them 
whose  fields  are  already  ruined — that  fire  can't  do  no  more 
harm — offer  them  big  money  to  help  you  save  your  section. 
Half  a  hundred  men  could  put  out  a  fire  if  one  did  start. 
An'  these  neighbors  of  yours,  some  of  them  will  jump 
at  a  chance  to  beat  the  I.  W.  W.  .  .  .  Boy,  it  can  be 
done!" 

He  ended  with  a  big  fist  held  aloft  in  triumph. 

"See!  Didn't  I  tell  you?"  murmured  Lenore,  softly. 
It  touched  her  deeply  to  see  Dorn  respond  to  hope.  His 
haggard  face  suddenly  warmed  and  glowed. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  he  burst  out,  radiantly. 
"We  can  save  the  wheat.  .  .  .  Mr.  Anderson,  I — I  can't 
thank  you  enough." 

"Don't  try,"  replied  the  rancher. 

"I  tell  you  it  will  rain,"  cried  Lenore,  gaily.  "Let's 
walk  out  there — watch  the  storm  come  across  the  hills. 
I  love  to  see  the  shadows  blow  over  the  wheat." 

Lenore  became  aware,  as  she  passed  the  car,  that  Nash 
was  glaring  at  her  in  no  unmistakable  manner.  She  had 

86 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

forgotten  all  about  him.     The  sight  of  his  jealous  face 
somehow  added  to  her  strange  exhilaration. 

They  crossed  the  road  from  the  house,  and,  facing  the 
west,  had  free  prospect  of  the  miles  of  billowy  hills  and  the 
magnificent  ordnance  of  the  storm-clouds.  The  deep,  low 
mutterings  of  thunder  seemed  a  grand  and  welcome  music. 
Lenore  stole  a  look  at  Dorn,  to  see  him,  bareheaded, 
face  upturned,  entranced.  It  was  only  a  rain-storm  com 
ing!  Down  in  the  valley  country  such  storms  were 
frequent  at  this  season,  too  common  for  their  meaning  to 
be  appreciated.  Here  in  the  desert  of  wheat  rain  was  a 
blessing,  life  itself. 

The  creamy-white,  rounded  edge  of  the  approaching 
clouds  came  and  coalesced,  spread  and  mushroomed. 
Under  them  the  body  of  the  storm  was  purple,  lit  now 
and  then  by  a  flash  of  lightning.  Long,  drifting  veils 
of  rain,  gray  as  thin  fog,  hung  suspended  between  sky 
and  earth. 

"Listen!"  exclaimed  Dorn. 

A  warm  wind,  laden  with  dry  scent  of  wheat,  struck 
Lenore's  face  and  waved  her  hair.  It  brought  a  silken, 
sweeping  rustle,  a  whispering  of  the  bearded  grain.  The 
soft  sound  thrilled  Lenore.  It  seemed  a  sweet,  hopeful 
message  that  waiting  had  been  rewarded,  that  the  drought 
could  be  broken.  Again,  and  more  beautiful  than  ever 
before  in  her  life,  she  saw  the  waves  of  shadow  as  they  came 
forward  over  the  wheat.  Rippling,  like  breezes  over  the 
surface  of  a  golden  lake,  they  came  in  long,  broken  lines, 
moving,  following,  changing,  until  the  whole  wheat-field 
seemed  in  shadowy  motion. 

The  cloud  pageant  rolled  on  above  and  beyond.  Lenore 
felt  a  sweet  drop  of  rain  splash  upon  her  upturned  face. 
It  seemed  like  a  caress.  There  came  a  pattering  around 
her.  Suddenly  rose  a  damp,  faint  smell  of  dust.  Beyond 
the  hill  showed  a  gray  pall  of  rain,  coming  slowly,  charged 
with  a  low  roar.  The  whisper  of  the  sweeping  wheat  w 
swallowed  up. 

37 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Lenore  stood  her  ground  until  heavy  rain-drops  fell 
thick  and  fast  upon  her,  sinking  through  her  thin  waist  to 
thrill  her  flesh;  and  then,  with  a  last  gay  call  to  those  two 
man  lovers  of  wheat  and  storms,  she  ran  for  the  porch. 

There  they  joined  her,  Anderson  purring  and  smiling, 
Dorn  still  with  that  rapt  look  upon  his  face.  The  rain 
swept  up  and  roared  on  the  roof,  while  all  around  was 
streaked  gray. 

' '  Boy,  there's  your  thirty-thousand-dollar  rain !' '  shouted 

Anderson. 

But  Dorn  did  not  hear.  Once  he  smiled  at  Lenore  as  if 
she  were  the  good  fairy  who  had  brought  about  this 
miracle.  In  his  look  Lenore  had  deeper  realization  of  him, 
of  nature,  and  of  life.  She  loved  rain,  but  always,  thence 
forth,  she  would  reverence  it.  Fresh,  cool  fragrance  of  a 
renewed  soil  filled  the  air.  All  that  dusty  gray  hue  of  the 
earth  had  vanished,  and  it  was  wet  and  green  and  bright. 
Even  as  she  gazed  the  water  seemed  to  sink  in  as  it  fell,  a 
precious  relief  to  thirsty  soil.  The  thunder  rolled  away 
eastward  and  the  storm  passed.  The  thin  clouds  following 
soon  cleared  away  from  the  western  sky,  rain-washed  and 
blue,  with  a  rainbow  curving  down  to  bury  its  exquisite 
hues  in  the  golden  wheat. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

journey  homeward  held  many  incalculable  differ- 
1  ences  from  the  uncertain  doubts  and  fears  that  had 
tormented  Lenore  on  the  outward  trip. 

For  a  long  time  she  felt  the  warm,  tight  clasp  of  Dorn's 
hand  on  hers  as  he  had  said  good-by.  Very  evidently  he 
believed  that  was  to  be  his  last  sight  of  her.  Lenore  would 
never  forget  the  gaze  that  seemed  to  try  to  burn  her  image 
on  his  memory  forever.  She  felt  that  they  would  meet 
again.  Solemn  thoughts  revolved  in  her  mind;  still, 
she  was  not  unhappy.  She  had  given  much  unsought,  but 
the  return  to  her  seemed  growing  every  moment  that  she 
lived. 

The  dust  had  been  settled  by  the  rain  for  many  miles; 
however,  beyond  Palmer  there  began  to  show  evidences 
that  the  storm  had  thinned  out  or  sheered  off,  because  the 
road  gradually  grew  dry  again.  When  dust  rose  once 
more  Lenore  covered  her  face,  although,  obsessed  as  she 
was  by  the  deep  change  in  herself,  neither  dust  nor  heat 
nor  distance  affected  her  greatly.  Like  the  miles  the 
moments  sped  by.  She  was  aware  through  closed  eyes 
when  darkness  fell.  Stops  were  frequent  after  the  Copper 
River  had  been  crossed,  and  her  father  appeared  to  meet 
and  question  many  persons  in  the  towns  they  passed. 
Most  of  his  questioning  pertained  to  the  I.  W.  W.  And 
even  excited  whispering  by  her  father  and  Jake  had  no 
power  to  interest  her.  It  was  midnight  when  they 
reached  "Many  Waters"  and  Lenore  became  conscious  of 
fatigue. 

Nash  crowded  in  front  of  Jake  as  she  was  about  to  step 
out,  and  assisted  her.  He  gave  her  arm  a  hard  squeeze 
and  fiercely  whispered  in  her  ear,  "To-morrow!" 

The  whisper  was  trenchant  with  meaning  and  thor- 

89 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

oughly  aroused  Lenore.  But  she  gave  no  s'gn  and  moved 
away. 

"I  seen  strangers  sneakin'  off  in  the  dark,"  Jake  was 
whispering  to  Anderson. 

"Keep  your  eyes  peeled,"  replied  Anderson.  "I'll 
take  Lenore  up  to  the  house  an*  come  back." 

It  was  pitch  black  up  the  path  through  the  grove  and 
Lenore  had  to  cling  to  her  father. 

"Is  there — any  danger?"  she  whispered. 

"We're  lookin'  for  anythin',"  replied  Anderson,  slowly. 

"Will  you  be  careful?" 

"Sure,  lass.  I'll  take  no  foolish  risks.  I've  got  men 
watchin'  the  house  an'  ranch.  But  I'd  better  have  the 
cowboys  down.  There's  Jake — he  spots  some  prowlin' 
coyotes  the  minute  we  reach  home." 

Anderson  unlocked  and  opened  the  door.  The  hall  was 
dark  and  quiet.  He  turned  on  the  electric  light.  Lenore 
was  detaching  her  veil. 

"You  look  pale,"  he  said,  solicitously.  "No  wonder. 
That  was  a  ride.  But  I'm  glad  we  went.  I  saved  Dorn's 
wheat." 

"I'm  glad,  too,  father.     Good-night!" 

He  bade  her  good-night,  and  went  out,  locking  the  door. 
Then  his  rapid  footsteps  died  away.  Wearily  Lenore 
climbed  the  stairs  and  went  to  her  room. 

She  was  awakened  from  deep  slumber  by  Kathleen, 
who  pulled  and  tugged  at  her. 

"Lenorry,  I  thought  you  was  dead,  your  eyes  were 
shut  so  tight,"  declared  the  child.  "Breakfast  is  waiting. 
Did  you  fetch  me  anything?" 

"Yes,  a  new  sister,"  replied  Lenore,  dreamily. 

Kathleen's  eyes  opened  wide.     "Where?" 

Lenore  placed  a  hand  over  her  heart. 

"Here." 

"Oh,  you  do  look  funny.  .  .  .  Get  up,  Lenorry.  Did 
you  haar  the  shooting  last  night?" 

90 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Instantly  Lenore  sat  up  and  stared. 
"No.     Was  there  any?" 

"You  bet.     But  I  don't  know  what  it  was  all  about." 
Lenore    dispelled    her    dreamy   state,    and,    hurriedly 
dressing,  she  went  down  to  breakfast.     Her  father  and 
Rose  were  still  at  the  table. 

"Hello,  big  eyes!"  was  his  greeting. 
And  Rose,  not  to  be  outdone,  chirped,    "Hello,  old 
sleepy-head!" 

Lenore's  reply  lacked  her  usual  spontaneity.  And  she 
felt,  if  she  did  not  explain,  the  wideness  of  her  eyes.  Her 
father  did  not  look  as  if  anything  worried  him.  It  was  a 
way  of  his,  however,  not  to  show  stress  or  worry.  Lenore 
ate  in  silence  until  Rose  left  the  dining-room,  and  then  she 
asked  her  father  if  there  had  been  shooting. 

"Sure,"  he  replied,  with  a  broad  smile.  "Jake 
turned  his  guns  loose  on  them  prowlin'  men  last  night. 
By  George!  you  ought  to  have  heard  them  run.  One 
plumped  into  the  gate  an'  went  clear  over  it,  to  fall  like  a 
log.  Another  fell  into  the  brook  an'  made  more  racket 
than  a  drownin'  horse.  But  it  was  so  dark  we  couldn't 
catch  them." 

"Jake  shot  to  frighten  them?"  inquired  Lenore. 
"Not  much.     He  stung  one  I.  W.  W.,  that's  sure.     We 
heard  a  cry,  an'  this  mornin'  we  found  some  blood." 

"What  do  you  suppose  these— these  night  visitors 
wanted?" 

' '  No  tellin' .  Jake  thinks  one  of  them  looked  an'  walked 
like  the  man  Nash  has  been  meetin'.  Anyway,  we're 
not  takin'  much  more  chance  on  Nash.  I  reckon  it's 
dangerous  keepin'  him  around.  I'll  have  him  drive  me 
to-day—over  to  Vale,  an'  then  to  Huntington.  You 
can  go  along.  That  '11  be  your  last  chance  to  pump  him. 
Have  you  found  out  any  thin'?" 

Lenore  told  what  had  transpired  between  her  and  the 
driver.  Anderson's  face  turned  fiery  red. 

"That  ain't  much  to  help  us,"  he  declared,  angrily. 
7  91 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"But  it  shows  him  up.  ...  So  his  real  name's  Ruenke? 
Fine  American  name,  I  don't  think!  That  man's  a  spy 
an'  a  plotter.  An'  before  he's  another  day  older  I'm 
goin'  to  corner  him.  It's  a  sure  go  I  can't  hold  Jake  in 
any  longer." 

To  Lenore  it  was  a  further  indication  of  her  father's 
temper  that  when  they  went  down  to  enter  the  car  he 
addressed  Nash  in  cool,  careless,  easy  speech.  It  made 
Lenore  shiver.  She  had  heard  stories  of  her  father's 
early  career  among  hard  men. 

Jake  was  there,  dry,  caustic,  with  keen,  quiet  eyes  that 
any  subtle,  clever  man  would  have  feared.  But  Nash's 
thought  seemed  turned  mostly  inward. 

Lenore  took  the  front  seat  in  the  car  beside  the  driver. 
He  showed  unconscious  response  to  that  action. 

"  Jake,  aren't  you  coming?"  she  asked,  of  the  cowboy. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  it  '11  be  sure  dull  fer  you  without  me. 
Nobody  to  talk  to  while  your  dad  fools  around.  Buc  I 
can't  go.  Me  an'  the  boys  air  agoin'  to  hang  some 
I.  W.  W.'s  this  mawnin',  an'  I  can't  miss  thet  fun." 

Jake  drawled  his  speech  and  laughed  lazily  as  he  ended 
it.  He  was  just  boasting,  as  usual,  but  his  hawklike  eyes 
were  on  Nash.  And  it  was  certain  that  Nash  turned 
pale. 

Lenore  had  no  reply  to  make.  Her  father  appeared 
to  lose  patience  with  Jake,  but  after  a  moment's  hesita 
tion  decided  not  to  voice  it. 

Nash  was  not  a  good  nor  a  careful  driver  under  any 
circumstances,  and  this  morning  it  was  evident  he  did  not 
have  his  mind  on  his  business.  There  were  bumps  in  the 
orchard  road  where  the  irrigation  ditches  crossed. 

"Say,  you  ought  to  be  drivin'  a  hay- wagon,"  called 
Anderson,  sarcastically. 

At  Vale  he  ordered  the  car  stopped  at  the  post-office, 
and,  telling  Lenore  he  might  be  detained  a  few  moments, 
he  went  in.  Nash  followed,  and  presently  came  back  with 
a  package  of  letters.  Upon  taking  his  seat  in  the  car  he 

92 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

assorted  the  letters,  one  of  which,  a  large,  thick  envelope, 
manifestly  gave  him  excited  gratification.  He  pocketed 
them  and  turned  to  Lenore. 

"Ah!  I  see  you  get  letters — from  a  woman,"  she  said, 
pretending  a  poison  sweetness  of  jealousy. 

1 '  Certainly.  I'm  not  married  yet , "  he  replied.  ' '  Lenore, 
last  night—" 

"You  will  never  be  married — to  me — while  you  write  to 
other  women.  Let  me  see  that  letter!  .  .  .  Let  me  read 
it — all  of  them!" 

"No,  Lenore — not  here.  And  don't  speak  so  loud. 
Your  father  will  be  coming  any  minute.  .  .  .  Lenore,  he 
suspects  me.  And  that  cowboy  knows  things.  I  can't 
go  back  to  the  ranch." 

"Oh,  you  must  come!" 

"No.  If  you  love  me  you've  got  to  run  off  with  me 
to-day." 

"But  why  the  hurry?"  she  appealed. 

"It's  getting  hot  for  me." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?  Why  don't  you  explain 
to  me?  As  long  as  you  are  so  strange,  so  mysterious, 
how  can  I  trust  you?  You  ask  me  to  run  off  with  you, 
yet  you  don't  put  confidence  in  me." 

Nash  grew  pale  and  earnest,  and  his  hands  shook. 

' '  But  if  I  do  confide  in  you,  then  will  you  come  with  me  ?" 
he  queried,  breathlessly. 

"I'll  not  promise.  Maybe  what  you  have  to  tell  will 
prove — you — you  don't  care  for  me." 

"  It  '11  prove  I  do,"  he  replied,  passionately. 

"Then  tell  me."  Lenore  realized  she  could  no  longer 
play  the  part  she  had  assumed.  But  Nash  was  so  stirred 
by  his  own  emotions,  so  carried  along  in  a  current,  that 
he  did  not  see  the  difference  in  her. 

"Listen.  I  tell  you  it's  getting  hot  for  me,"  he 
whispered.  "I've  been  put  here — close  to  Anderson — to 
find  out  things  and  to  carry  out  orders.  Lately  I've 
neglected  my  job  because  I  fell  in  love  with  you.  He's 

93 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

your  father.  If  I  go  on  with  plans — and  harm  comes  to 
him — I'll  never  get  you.  Is  that  clear?" 

"  It  certainly  is,"  replied  Lenore,  and  she  felt  a  tightness 
at  her  throat. 

"I'm no  member  of  the  I.  W.  W.,"  he  went  on.  "  What 
ever  that  organization  might  have  been  last  year,  it's  gone 
wild  this  year.  .  .  .  There  are  interests  that  have  used 
the  I.  W.  W.  I'm  only  an  agent,  and  I'm  not  high  up, 
either.  I  see  what  the  government  will  do  to  the  I.  W.  W. 
if  the  Northwest  leaves  any  of  it.  But  just  now  there 
're  plots  against  a  few  big  men  like  your  father.  He's 
to  be  ruined.  His  crops  and  ranches  destroyed.  And  he's 
to  be  killed.  It's  because  he's  so  well  known  and  has  so 
much  influence  that  he  was  marked.  I  told  you  the 
I.  W.  W.  was  being  used  to  make  trouble.  They  are  being 
stirred  up  by  agitators,  bribed  and  driven,  all  for  the  pur 
pose  of  making  a  great  disorder  in  the  Northwest." 

''Germany!"  whispered  Lenore. 

' '  I  can't  say.  But  men  are  all  over,  and  these  men  work 
in  secret.  There  are  American  citizens  in  the  Northwest 
— one  right  in  this  valley — who  have  plotted  to  ruin  your 
father." 

"  Do  you  know  who  they  are?" 

"No,  I  do  not." 

<(  You  are  for  Germany,  of  course?" 

"I  have  been.  My  people  are  German.  But  I  was 
born  in  the  U.  S.  And  if  it  suits  me  I  will  be  for  America. 
If  you  come  with  me  I'll  throw  up  this  dirty  job,  advise 
Glidden  to  shift  the  plot  from  your  father  to  some  other 
man — " 

"So  it's  Glidden!"  exclaimed  Lenore. 

Nash  bit  his  lip,  and  for  the  first  time  looked  at  Lenore 
without  thinking  of  himself.  And  surprise  dawned  in 
his  eyes. 

"Yes,  Glidden.  You  saw  him  speak  to  me  up  in  the 
Bend,  the  first  time  your  father  went  to  see  Dorn's  wheat. 
Glidden's  playing  the  I.  W.  W.  against  itself.  He  means 

94 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

to  drop  out  of  this  deal  with  big  money.  .  .  .  Now  I'll 
save  your  father  if  you'll  stick  to  me." 

Lenore  could  no  longer  restrain  herself.  This  man  was 
not  even  big  in  his  wickedness.  Lenore  divined  that  his 
later  words  held  no  truth. 

"Mr.  Ruenke,  you  are  a  detestable  coward,"  she  said, 
with  quivering  scorn.  "I  let  you  imagine —  Oh!  I 
can't  speak  it !  .  .  .  You — you — " 

"God!  You  fooled  me!"  he  ejaculated,  his  jaw  falling 
in  utter  amaze. 

"You  were  contemptibly  easy.  You'd  better  jump  out 
of  this  car  and  run.  My  father  will  shoot  you. ' ' 

"You  deceitful — cat!"  he  cried,  haltingly,  as  anger 
overcame  his  astonishment.  "I'll — " 

Anderson's  big  bulk  loomed  up  behind  Nash.  Lenore 
gasped  as  she  saw  her  father,  for  his  eyes  were  upon  her 
and  he  had  recognized  events. 

"Say,  Mister  Ruenke,  the  postmaster  says  you  get 
letters  here  under  different  names,"  said  Anderson, 
bluntly. 

"Yes — I — I — get  them — for  a  friend,"  stammered  the 
driver,  as  his  face  turned  white. 

"You  lyin'  German  pup!  .  .  .  I'll  look  over  them  let 
ters!"  Anderson's  big  hand  shot  out  to  clutch  Nash, 
holding  him  powerless,  and  with  the  other  hand  he  searched 
Nash's  inside  coat  pockets,  to  tear  forth  a  packet  of  letters. 
Then  Anderson  released  him  and  stepped  back.  "Get  out 
of  that  car!"  he  thundered. 

Nash  made  a  slow  movement,  as  if  to  comply,  then  sud 
denly  he  threw  on  the  power.  The  car  jerked  forward. 

Anderson  leaped  to  get  one  hand  on  the  car  door,  the 
other  on  Nash.  He  almost  pulled  the  driver  out  of  his 
seat.  But  Nash  held  on  desperately,  and  the  car,  gain 
ing  momentum,  dragged  Anderson.  He  could  not  get  his 
feet  up  on  the  running-board,  and  suddenly  he  fell 

Lenore  screamed  and  tore  frantically  at  the  handle  of 
the  door.  Nash  struck  her,  jerked  her  back  into  the  seat. 

95 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

She  struggled  until  the  car  shot  full  speed  ahead.  Then 
it  meant  death  for  her  to  leap  out. 

"Sit  still,  or  you'll  kill  ypurself '."shouted  Nash, hoarsely. 

Lenore  fell  back,  almost  fainting,  with  the  swift  reali 
zation  of  what  had  happened. 


CHAPTER  IX 

I/^URT  DORN  had  indeed  no  hope  of  ever  seeing 
Pv  Lenore  Anderson  again,  and  he  suffered  a  pang  that 
seemed  to  leave  his  heart  numb,  though  Anderson's 
timely  visit  might  turn  out  as  providential  as  the  saving 
rain-storm.  The  wheat  waved  and  rustled  as  if  with 
renewed  and  bursting  life.  The  exquisite  rainbow  still 
shone,  a  beautiful  promise,  in  the  sky.  But  Dorn  could 
not  be  happy  in  that  moment. 

This  day  Lenore  Anderson  had  seemed  a  bewildering 
fulfilment  of  the  sweetness  he  had  imagined  was  latent  in 
her.  She  had  meant  what  was  beyond  him  to  understand. 
She  had  gently  put  a  hand  to  his  lips,  to  check  the  bitter 
words,  and  he  had  dared  to  kiss  her  soft  fingers.  The 
thrill,  the  sweetness,  the  incomprehensible  and  perhaps 
imagined  response  of  her  pulse  would  never  leave  him. 
He  watched  the  big  car  until  it  was  out  of  sight. 

The  afternoon  was  only  half  advanced  and  there  were 
numberless  tasks  to  do.  He  decided  he  could  think  and 
plan  while  he  worked.  As  he  was  about  to  turn  away  he 
espied  another  automobile,  this  one  coming  from  the 
opposite  direction  to  that  Anderson  had  taken.  The 
sight  of  it  reminded  Dorn  of  the  I.  W.  W.  trick  of  throwing 
phosphorus  cakes  into  the  wheat.  He  was  suspicious  of 
that  car.  It  slowed  down  in  front  of  the  Dorn  homestead, 
turned  into  the  yard,  and  stopped  near  where  Dorn  stood. 
The  dust  had  caked  in  layers  upon  it.  Some  one  hailed 
him  and  asked  if  this  was  the  Dorn  farm.  Kurt  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  whereupon  a  tall  man,  wearing  a  long 
linen  coat,  opened  the  car  door  to  step  out.  In  the  car 
remained  the  driver  and  another  man. 

"My  name  is  Hall,"  announced  the  stranger,  with  a 
pleasant  manner.  "I'm  from  Washington,  D.  C.  I 

97 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

represent  the  government  and  am  in  the  Northwest  in 
the  interest  of  the  Conservation  Commission.  Your 
name  has  been  recommended  to  me  as  one  of  the  pro 
gressive  young  wheat-growers  of  the  Bend;  particularly 
that  you  are  an  American,  located  in  a  country  exceedingly 
important  to  the  United  States  just  now — a  country  where 
foreign-born  people  predominate." 

Kurt,  somewhat  startled  and  awed,  managed  to  give  a 
courteous  greeting  to  'his  visitor,  and  asked  him  into  the 
house.  But  Mr.  Hall  preferred  to  sit  outdoors  on  the 
porch.  He  threw  off  hat  and  coat,  and,  taking  an  easy- 
chair,  he  produced  some  cigars. 

"Will  you  smoke?"  he  asked,  offering  one. 

Kurt  declined  with  thanks.  He  was  aware  of  this  man's 
penetrating,  yet  kindly  scrutiny  of  him,  and  he  had  begun 
to  wonder.  This  was  no  ordinary  visitor. 

"Have  you  been  drafted?"  abruptly  queried  Mr.  Hall. 

"Yes,  sir.  Mine  was  the  first  number,"  replied  Kurt, 
with  a  little  pride. 

"Do  you  want  exemption?"  swiftly  came  the  second 
query. 

It  shocked  Dorn,  then  stung  him. 

"No,"  he  said,  forcibly. 

"Your  father's  sympathy  is  with  Germany,  I  under 
stand." 

"Well,  sir,  I  don't  know  how  you  understand  that, 
but  it's  true — to  my  regret  and  shame." 

"You  want  to  fight?"  went  on  the  official. 

"I  hate  the  idea  of  war.  But  I — I  guess  I  want  to 
fight.  Maybe  that's  because  I'm  feeling  scrappy  over 
these  I.  W.  W.  tricks." 

"  Dorn,  the  I.  W.  W.  is  only  one  of  the  many  phases  of 
war  that  we  must  meet,"  returned  Mr.  Hall,  and  then  for  a, 
moment  he  thoughtfully  drew  upon  his  cigar. 

"Young  man,  I  like  your  talk.  And  I'll  tell  you  a 
secret.  My  name's  not  Hall.  Never  mind  my  name. 
For  you  it's  Uncle  Sam!" 

93 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Whereupon,  with  a  winning  and  fascinating  manner 
that  seemed  to  Kurt  at  once  intimate  and  flattering,  he 
began  to  talk  fluently  of  the  meaning  of  his  visit,  and  of 
its  cardinal  importance.  The  government  was  looking 
far  ahead,  preparing  for  a  tremendous,  and  perhaps  a 
lengthy,  war.  The  food  of  the  country  must  be  conserved. 
Wheat  was  one  of  the  most  vital  things  in  the  whole 
world,  and  the  wheat  of  America  was  incalculably  precious 
— only  the  government  knew  how  precious.  If  the  war 
was  short  a  wheat  famine  would  come  afterward;  if  it 
was  long,  the  famine  would  come  before  the  war  ended. 
But  it  was  inevitable.  The  very  outcome  of  the  war 
itself  depended  upon  wheat. 

The  government  expected  a  nation-wide  propaganda  by 
the  German  interests  which  would  be  carried  on  secretly 
and  boldly,  in  every  conceivable  way,  to  alienate  the  labor 
organizations,  to  bribe  or  menace  the  harvesters,  to  de 
spoil  crops,  and  particularly  to  put  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
the  raising  and  harvesting,  the  transporting  and  storing 
of  wheat.  It  would  take  an  army  to  protect  the  nation's 
grain. 

Dorn  was  earnestly  besought  by  this  official  to  compass 
his  district,  to  find  out  who  could  be  depended  upon  by 
the  United  States  and  who  was ,  antagonistic,  to  impress 
upon  the  minds  of  all  his  neighbors  the  exceeding  need  of 
greater  and  more  persistent  cultivation  of  wheat. 

"I  accept.  I'll  do  my  best,"  replied  Kurt,  grimly. 
"I'll  be  going  some  the  next  two  weeks." 

"It's  deplorable  that  most  of  the  wheat  in  this  section 
is  a  failure,"  said  the  official.  "But  we  must  make  up 
for  that  next  year.  I  see  you  have  one  magnificent 
wheat-field.  But,  fact  is,  I  heard  of  that  long  before  I  got 
here." 

"Yes?  Where?"  ejaculated  Kurt,  quick  to  catch  a 
significance  in  the  other's  words. 

"I've  motored  direct  from  Wheatly.  And  I'm  sorry  to 
say  that  what  I  have  now  to  tell  you  is  not  pleasant.  .  .  » 

99 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Your  father  sold  this  wheat  for  eighty  thousand  dollars  in 
cash.  The  money  was  seen  to  be  paid  over  by  a  mill- 
operator  of  Spokane.  .  .  .  And  your  father  is  reported  to 
be  suspiciously  interested  in  the  I.  W.  W.  men  now  at 
Wheatly." 

"Oh,  that's  awful!"  exclaimed  Kurt,  with  a  groan. 
"How  did  you  learn  that?" 

"From  American  farmers — men  that  I  had  been  in 
structed  to  approach,  the  same  as  in  your  case.  The 
information  came  quite  by  accident,  however,  and  through 
my  inquiring  about  the  I.  W.  W." 

"Father  has  not  been  rational  since  the  President  de 
clared  war.  He's  very  old.  I've  had  trouble  with  him. 
He  might  do  anything." 

"My  boy,  there  are  multitudes  of  irrational  men  now 
adays  and  the  number  is  growing.  ...  I  advise  you  to 
go  at  once  to  Wheatly  and  bring  your  father  home. 
It  was  openly  said  that  he  was  taking  risks  with  that 
large  sum  of  money." 

"Risks!  Why,  I  can't  understand  that.  The  wheat's 
not  harvested  yet,  let  alone  hauled  to  town.  And  to-day 
I  learned  the  I.  W.  W.  are  working  a  trick  with  cakes  of 
phosphorus,  to  burn  the  wheat." 

Kurt  produced  the  cake  of  phosphorus  and  explained 
its  significance  to  the  curious  official. 

"Cunning  devils !  Who  but  a  German  would  ever  have 
thought  of  that?"  he  exclaimed.  "German  science! 
To  such  ends  the  Germans  put  their  supreme  knowledge!" 

"I  wonder  what  my  father  will  say  about  this  phos 
phorus  trick.  I  just  wonder.  He  loves  the  wheat.  His 
wheat  has  taken  prizes  at  three  world's  fairs.  Maybe 
to  see  our  wheat  burn  would  untwist  that  twist  in  his 
brain  and  make  him  American." 

"I  doubt  it.  Only  death  changes  the  state  of  a  real 
German,  physical,  moral,  and  spiritual.  Come,  ride  back 
to  Glencoe  with  me.  I'll  drop  you  there.  You  can  hire  a 
car  and  make  Wheatly  before  dark." 

100 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Kurt  ran  indoors,  thinking  hard  as  he  changed  clothes. 
He  told  the  housekeeper  to  tell  Jerry  he*  was  called  away 
and  would  be  back  next  day.  Putting  money  and  a  re 
volver  in  his  pocket,  he  started  out,  but  hesitated  and 
halted.  He  happened  to  think  that  he  was  a  poor  shot 
with  a  revolver  and  a  fine  one  with  a  rifle.  So  he  went 
back  for  his  rifle,  a  small  high-power,  repeating  gun  that 
he  could  take  apart  and  hide  under  his  coat.  When  he 
reached  the  porch  the  official  glanced  from  the  weapon 
to  Kurt's  face  and  said,  with  a  flash  of  spirit: 

"It  appears  that  you  are  in  earnest!" 

"I  am.  Something  told  me  to  take  this,"  responded 
Kurt,  as  he  dismounted  the  rifle.  "I've  already  had  one 
pan-in  with  an  I.  W.  W.  I  know  tough  customers  when  I 
see  them.  These  foreigners  are  the  kind  I  don't  want  near 
me.  And  if  I  see  one  trying  to  fire  the  wheat  111  shoot 
his  leg  off." 

"I'm  inclined  to  think  that  Uncle  Sam  would  not  de 
plore  your  shooting  a  little  higher.  .  .  .  Dorn,  you're 
fine!  You're  all  I  heard  you  were!  Shake  hands!" 

Kurt  tingled  all  over  as  he  followed  the  official  out  to 
the  car  and  took  the  seat  given  him  beside  the  driver. 
"Back  to  Glencoe,"  was  the  order.  And  then,  even  if 
conversation  had  been  in  order,  it  would  scarcely  have  been 
possible.  That  driver  could  drive!  He  had  no  fear  and 
he  knew  his  car.  Kurt  could  drive  himself,  but  he  thought 
that  if  he  had  been  as  good  as  this  fellow  he  would  have 
chosen  one  of  two  magnificent  services  for  the  army — 
an  ambulance-driver  at  the  front  or  an  aeroplane  scout. 

On  the  way  to  Glencoe  several  squads  of  idling  and 
marching  men  were  passed,  all  of  whom  bore  the  ear 
marks  of  the  I.  W.  W.  Sight  of  them  made  Kurt  hug  his 
gun  and  wonder  at  himself.  Never  had  he  been  a  coward, 
but  neither  had  he  been  one  to  seek  a  fight.  This  suave, 
distinguished  government  official,  by  his  own  significant 
metaphor,  Uncle  Sam  gone  abroad  to  find  true  hearts, 
had  wrought  powerfully  upon  Kurt's  temper.  He  sensed 

101 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

events.  He  revolved  Jn  mind  the  need  for  him  to  be  cool 
and  decisive  vvlien  facing,  ihe.  circumstances  that  were 
sure  to  arise. 

At  Glencoe,  which  was  reached  so  speedily  that  Kurt 
could  scarcely  credit  his  eyes,  the  official  said:  "  You'll 
hear  from  me.  Good-by  and  good  luck!" 

Kurt  hired  a  young  man  he  knew  to  drive  him  over  to 
Wheatly.  All  the  way  Kurt  brooded  about  his  father's 
strange  action.  The  old  man  had  left  home  before  the 
rain-storm.  How  did  he  know  he  could  guarantee  so 
many  bushels  of  wheat  as  the  selling-price  indicated? 
Kurt  divined  that  his  father  had  acted  upon  one  of  his 
strange  weather  prophecies.  For  he  must  have  been 
absolutely  sure  of  rain  to  save  the  wheat. 

Darkness  had  settled  down  when  Kurt  reached  Wheatly 
and  left  the  car  at  the  railroad  station.  Wheatly  was 
a  fairly  good-sized  little  town.  There  seemed  to  be  an 
unusual  number  of  men  on  the  dark  streets.  Dim  lights 
showed  here  and  there.  Kurt  passed  several  times  near 
groups  of  conversing  men,  but  he  did  not  hear  any  signifi 
cant  talk. 

Most  of  the  stores  were  open  and  well  filled  with  men, 
but  to  Kurt's  sharp  eyes  there  appeared  to  be  much  more 
gossip  going  on  than  business.  The  town  was  not  as 
slow  and  quiet  as  was  usual  with  Bend  towns.  He  listened 
for  war  talk,  and  heard  none.  Two  out  of  every  three 
men  who  spoke  in  his  hearing  did  not  use  the  English 
language.  Kurt  went  into  the  office  of  the  first  hotel  he 
found.  There  was  no  one  present.  He  glanced  at  an 
old  register  lying  on  the  desk.  No  guests  had  registered 
for  several  days. 

Then  Kurt  went  out  and  accosted  a  man  leaning  against 
a  hitching-rail. 

"What's  going  on  in  this  town?" 

The  man  stood  rather  indistinctly  in  the  uncertain  light. 
Kurt,  however,  made  out  his  eyes  and  they  were  regarding 
him  suspiciously, 

IO2 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Nothin'  onusual,"  was  the  reply. 

"Has  harvesting  begun  in  these  parts?" 

' '  Some  barley  cut,  but  no  wheat.     Next  week,  I  reckon." 

'"How's  the  wheat?" 

"Some  bad  an'  some  good." 

"Is  this  town  a  headquarters  for  the  I.  W.  W.?" 

"No.  But  there's  a  big  camp  of  I.  W.  W.'s  near  here. 
Reckon  you're  one  of  them  union  fellers?" 

"I  am  not,"  declared  Kurt,  bluntly. 

"Reckon  you  sure  look  like  one,  with  thet  gun  under 
your  coat." 

"Are  you  going  to  hire  I.  W.  W.  men?"  asked  Kurt, 
ignoring  the  other's  observation. 

"I'm  only  a  farm-hand,"  was  the  sullen  reply  .  "An' 
I  tell  you  I  won't  join  no  I.  W.  W." 

Kurt  spared  himself  a  moment  to  give  this  fellow  a  few 
strong  proofs  of  the  fact  that  any  farm-hand  was  wise  to 
take  such  a  stand  against  the  labor  organization.  Leaving 
the  fellow  gaping  and  staring  after  him,  Kurt  crossed  the 
street  to  enter  another  hotel.  It  was  more  pretentious 
than  the  first,  with  a  large,  well-lighted  office.  There  were 
loungers  at  the  tables.  Kurt  walked  to  the  desk.  A  man. 
leaned  upon  his  elbows.  He  asked  Kurt  if  he  wanted  a 
room.  This  man,  evidently  the  proprietor,  was  a  German, 
though  he  spoke  English. 

"I'm  not  sure,"  replied  Kurt.  "Will  you  let  me  look 
at  the  register?" 

The  man  shoved  the  book  around.  Kurt  did  not  find 
the  name  he  sought, 

"My  father,  Chris  Dorn,  is  in  town.  Can  you  tell  me 
where  I'll  find  him?" 

"So  you're  young  Dorn,"  replied  the  other,  with  in 
stant  change  to  friendliness.  "I've  heard  of  you.  Yes, 
the  old  man  is  here.  He  made  a  big  wheat  deal  to-day. 
He's  eating  his  supper." 

Kurt  stepped  to  the  door  indicated,  and,  looking  into 
the  dining-room,  he  at  once  espied  his  father's  huge  head 

103 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

with  its  shock  of  gray  hair  He  appeared  to  be  in  earnest 
colloquy  with  a  man  whose  bulk  matched  his  own.  Kurt 
hesitated,  and  finally  went  back  to  the  desk. 

"Who's  the  big  man  with  my  father?"  he  asked. 

"He  is  a  big  man,  both  ways  Don't  you  know  him?" 
rejoined  the  proprietor,  in  a  lower  voice. 

* '  I'm  not  sure, ' '  answered  Kurt.  The  lowered  tone  had 
a  significance  that  decided  Kurt  to  admit  nothing. 

"That's  Neuman  from  Ruxton,  one  of  the  biggest 
wheat  men  in  Washington." 

Kurt  repressed  a  whistle  ot  surprise.  Neuman  was 
Anderson's  only  rival  in  the  great,  fertile  valley.  What 
were  Neuman  and  Chris  Dorn  doing  with  their  heads 
together? 

"I  thought  he  was  Neuman,"  replied  Kurt,  feeling  his 
way.  "  Is  he  in  on  the  big  deal  with  father  ?" 

"Which  one?"  queried  the  proprietor,  with  shrewd 
eyes,  taking  Kurt's  measure.  "You're  in  on  both,  of 
course?" 

"Sure.  I  mean  the  wheat  sale,  not  the  I.  W.  W.  deal," 
replied  Kurt.  He  hazarded  a  guess  with  that  mention  of 
the  I.  W.  W.  No  sooner  had  the  words  passed  his  lips 
than  he  divined  he  was  on  the  track  of  sinister  events. 

"Your  father  sold  out  to  that  Spokane  miller.  No, 
Neuman  is  not  in  on  that." 

"I  was  surprised  to  hear  father  had  sold  the  wheat. 
Was  it  speculation  or  guarantee?" 

"Old  Chris  guaranteed  sixty  bushels.  There  were 
friends  of  his  here  who  advised  against  it.  Did  you  have 
rain  over  there?" 

"Fine.  The  wheat  will  go  over  sixty  bushels.  I'm 
sorry  I  couldn't  get  here  sooner." 

"When  it  rained  you  hurried  over  to  boost  the  price. 
Well,  it's  too  late." 

"Is  Glidden  here?"  queried  Kurt,  hazarding  another 
guess. 

"Don't  talk  so  loud,"  warned  the  proprietor.  "Yes, 

104 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

he  just  got  here  in  a  car  with  two  other  men.  He's  up 
stairs  having  supper  in  his  room." 

"Supper!"  Kurt  echoed  the  word,  and  averted  his 
face  to  hide  the  leap  of  his  blood.  "That  reminds  me, 
I'm  hungry." 

He  went  into  the  big,  dimly  lighted  dining-room.  There 
was  a  shelf  on  one  side  as  he  went  in,  and  here,  with  his 
back  turned  to  the  room,  he  laid  the  disjointed  gun  and  his 
hat.  Several  newspapers  lying  near  attracted  his  eye. 
Quickly  he  slipped  them  under  and  around  the  gun,  and 
then  took  a  seat  at  the  nearest  table.  A  buxom  German 
waitress  came  for  his  order.  He  gave  it  while  he  gazed 
around  at  his  grim-faced  old  father  and  the  burly  Neuman, 
and  his  ears  throbbed  to  the  beat  of  his  blood.  His 
hand  trembled  on  the  table.  His  thoughts  flashed  almost 
too  swiftly  for  comprehension.  It  took  a  stern  effort  to 
gain  self-control. 

Evil  of  some  nature  was  afoot.  Neuman's  presence 
there  was  a  strange,  disturbing  fact.  Kurt  had  made 
two  guesses,  both  alarmingly  correct.  If  he  had  any 
more  illusions  or  hopes,  he  dispelled  them.  His  father  had 
been  won  over  by  this  arch  conspirator  of  the  I.  W.  W. 
And,  despite  his  father's  close-fistedness  where  money  was 
concerned,  that  eighty  thousand  dollars,  or  part  of  it,  was 
in  danger. 

Kurt  wondered  how  he  could  get  possession  of  it.  If 
he  could  he  would  return  it  to  the  bank  and  wire  a  warning 
to  the  Spokane  buyer  that  the  wheat  was  not  safe.  He 
might  persuade  his  father  to  turn  over  the  amount  of  the 
debt  to  Anderson.  While  thinking  and  planning,  Kurt 
kept  an  eye  on  his  father  and  rather  neglected  his  supper. 
Presently,  when  old  Dorn  and  Neuman  rose  and  left  the 
dining-room,  Kurt  followed  them.  His  father  was  whisper 
ing  to  the  proprietor  over  the  desk,  and  at  Kurt's  touch  he 
glared  his  astonishment. 

"You  here!  What  for?"  he  demanded,  gruffly,  in 
German. 

105 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

I  had  to  see  you,"  replied  Kurt,  in  English. 

"Did  it  rain?"  was  the  old  man's  second  demand, 
husky  and  serious. 

"The  wheat  is  made,  if  we  can  harvest  it,"  answered 
Kurt. 

The  blaze  of  joy  on  old  Dorn's  face  gave  Kurt  a  twinge 
of ^  pain.  He  hated  to  dispel  it.  "Come  aside,  here,  a 
minute,"  he  whispered,  and  drew  his  father  over  to  a 
corner  under  a  lamp.  "I've  got  bad  news.  Look  at 
this!"  He  produced  the  cake  of  phosphorus,  careful  to 
hide  it  from  other  curious  eyes  there,  and  with  swift,  IOT/ 
words  he  explained  its  meaning.  He  expected  an  out 
burst  of  surprise  and  fury,  but  he  was  mistaken. 

"I  know  about  that,"  whispered  his  father,  hoarsely. 
"There  won't  be  any  thrown  in  my  wheat." 

"Father!  What  assurance  have  you  of  that?"  queried 
Kurt,  astounded. 

The  old  man  nodded  his  gray  head  wisely.  He  knew, 
but  he  did  not  speak. 

"Do  you  think  these  I.  W.  W.  plotters  will  spare  your 
wheat?"  asked  Kurt.  "You  are  wrong.  They  may  lie  to 
your  face.  But  they'll  betray  you.  The  I. W. W.  is  backed 
by — by  interests  that  want  to  embarrass  the  government." 

' '  What  government  ? ' ' 

"Why,  ours — the  U.  S.  government!" 

"That's  not  my  government.  The  more  it's  embar 
rassed  the  better  it  will  suit  me." 

In  the  stress  of  the  moment  Kurt  had  forgotten  his 
father's  bitter  and  unchangeable  hatred. 

"But  you're — you're  stupid,"  he  hissed,  passionately. 
"That  government  has  protected  you  for  fifty  years." 

Old  Dorn  growled  into  his  beard.  His  huge  ox-eyes 
rolled.  Kurt  realized  then  finally  how  implacable  and 
hopeless  he  was — how  utterly  German.  Then  Kurt  im 
portuned  him  to  return  the  eighty  thousand  dollars  to 
the  bank  until  he  was  sure  the  wheat  was  harvested  and 
hauled  to  the  railroad. 

106 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"My  wheat  won't  burn,"  was  old  Dorn's  stubborn 
reply. 

"Well,  then,  give  me  Anderson's  thirty  thousand.  I'll 
take  it  to  him  at  once.  Our  debt  will  be  paid.  We'll 
have  it  off  our  minds." 

"No  hurry  about  that,"  replied  his  father. 

"But  there  is  hurry,"  returned  Kurt,  in  a  hot  whisper. 
* '  Anderson  came  to  see  you  to-day.  He  wants  his  money. ' ' 

"Neuman  holds  the  small  end  of  that  debt.  I'll  pay 
him.  Anderson  can  wait." 

Kurt  felt  no  amaze.  He  expected  anything.  But  he 
could  scarcely  contain  his  fury.  How  this  old  man,  his 
father,  whom  he  had  loved — how  he  had  responded  to  the 
influences  that  must  destroy  him! 

"Anderson  shall  not  wait,"  declared  Kurt.  "I've  got 
some  say  in  this  matter.  I've  worked  like  a  dog  in  those 
wheat-fields.  I've  a  right  to  demand  Anderson's  money. 
He  needs  it.  He  has  a  tremendous  harvest  on  his  hands. ' ' 

Old  Dorn  shook  his  huge  head  in  somber  and  gloomy 
thought.  His  broad  face,  his  deep  eyes,  seemed  to  mask 
and  to  hide.  It  was  an  expression  Kurt  had  seldom  seen 
there,  but  had  always  hated.  It  seemed  so  old  to  Kurt, 
that  alien  look,  something  not  born  of  his  time. 

"Anderson  is  a  capitalist,"  said  Chris  Dorn,  deep  in  his 
beard.  "He  seeks  control  of  farmers  and  wheat  in  the 
Northwest.  Ranch  after  ranch  he's  gained  by  taking 
up  and  foreclosing  mortgages.  He's  against  labor.  He 
grinds  down  the  poor.  He  cheated  Neuman  out  of  a 
hundred  thousand  bushels  of  wheat.  He  bought  up  my 
debt.  He  meant  to  ruin  me.  He — " 

"You're  talking  I.  W.  W.  rot,"  whispered  Kurt,  shaking 
with  the  effort  to  subdue  his  feelings.  "Anderson  is  fine, 
big,  square — a  developer  of  the  Northwest.  Not  an 
enemy!  He's  our  friend.  Oh !  if  only  you  had  an  Ameri 
can's  eyes,  just  for  a  minute!  .  .  .  Father,  I  want  that 
money  for  Anderson." 

"  My  son,  I  run  my  own  business, '  'replied  Dorn,  sullenly, 
8  107 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

with  a  pale  fire  in  his  opaque  eyes.  "You're  a  wild  boy, 
unfaithful  to  your  blood.  You've  fallen  in  love  with  an 
American  girl.  .  .  .  Anderson  says  he  needs  money !"  .  .  . 
With  hard,  gloomy  face  the  old  man  shook  his  head. 
"He  thinks  he'll  harvest!"  Again  that  strange  shake  of 
finality.  "I  know  what  I  know.  ...  I  keep  my  money 
.  .  .  .  We'll  have  other  rule.  .  .  .  I  keep  my  money." 

Kurt  had  vibrated  to  those  most  significant  words  and 
he  stared  speechless  at  his  father. 

"Go  home.  Get  ready  for  harvest,"  suddenly  ordered 
old  Dorn,  as  if  he  had  just  awakened  to  the  fact  of  Kurt's 
disobedience  in  lingering  here. 

"All  right,  father,"  replied  Kurt,  and,  turning  on  his 
heel,  he  strode  outdoors. 

When  he  got  beyond  the  light  he  turned  and  went  back 
to  a  position  where  in  the  dark  he  could  watch  without 
being  seen.  His  father  and  the  hotel  proprietor  were 
again  engaged  in  earnest  colloquy.  Neuman  had  disap 
peared.  Kurt  saw  the  huge  shadow  of  a  man  pass  across 
a  drawn  blind  in  a  room  up-stairs.  Then  he  saw  smaller 
shadows,  and  arms  raised  in  vehement  gesticulation. 
The  very  shadows  were  sinister.  Men  passed  in  and  out 
of  the  hotel.  Once  old  Dorn  came  to  the  door  and  peered 
all  around.  Kurt  observed  that  there  was  a  dark  side 
entrance  to  this  hotel.  Presently  Neuman  returned  to  the 
desk  and  said  something  to  old  Dorn,  who  shook  his  head 
emphatically,  and  then  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  in  a 
brooding  posture  that  Kurt  knew  well.  He  had  seen  it  so 
often  that  he  knew  it  had  to  do  with  money.  His  father 
was  refusing  demands  of  some  kind.  Neuman  again  left 
the  office,  this  time  with  the  proprietor.  They  were 
absent  some  little  time. 

During  this  period  Kurt  leaned  against  a  tree,  hidden  in 
the  shadow,  with  keen  eyes  watching  and  with  puzzled, 
anxious  mind.  He  had  determined,  in  case  his  father  left 
that  office  with  Neuman,  on  one  of  those  significant  dis 
appearances,  to  slip  into  the  hotel  at  the  side  entrance  and 

108 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

go  up-stairs  to  listen  at  the  door  of  the  room  with  the 
closely  drawn  blind.  Neuman  returned  soon  with  the 
hotel  man,  and  the  two  of  them  half  led,  half  dragged  old 
Dorn  out  into  the  street.  They  took  the  direction  toward 
the  railroad.  Kurt  followed  at  a  safe  distance  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  Soon  they  passed  the  stores 
with  lighted  windows,  then  several  dark  houses,  and  at 
length  the  railroad  station.  Perhaps  they  were-'bound  for 
the  train.  Kurt  heard  rumbling  in  the  distance.  But 
they  went  beyond  the  station,  across  the  track,  and  turned 
to  the  right. 

Kurt  was  soft-footed  and  keen-eyed.  He  just  kept  the 
dim  shadows  in  range.  They  were  heading  for  some 
freight-cars  that  stood  upon  a  side-track.  The  dark 
figures  disappeared  behind  them.  Then  one  figure 
reappeared,  coming  back.  Kurt  crouched  low.  This 
man  passed  within  a  few  yards  of  Kurt  and  he  was  whisper 
ing  to  himself.  After  he  was  safely  out  of  earshot  Kurt 
stole  on  stealthily  until  he  reached  the  end  of  the  freight- 
cars.  Here  he  paused,  listening.  He  thought  he  heard 
low  voices,  but  he  could  not  see  the  men  he  was  following. 
No  doubt  they  were  waiting  in  the  secluded  gloom  for  the 
other  men  apparently  necessary  for  that  secret  conference. 
Kurt  had  sensed  this  event  and  he  had  determined  to  be 
present.  He  tried  not  to  conjecture.  It  was  best  for 
him  to  apply  all  his  faculties  to  the  task  of  slipping  unseen 
and  unheard  close  to  these  men  who  had  involved  his 
father  in  some  dark  plot. 

Not  long  after  Kurt  hid  himself  on  the  other  side  of  the 
freight-car  he  heard  soft-padded  footsteps  and  subdued 
voices.  Dark  shapes  appeared  to  come  out  of  the  gloom. 
They  passed  him.  He  distinguished  low,  guttural  voices, 
speaking  German.  These  men,  three  in  number,  were 
scarcely  out  of  sight  when  Kurt  laid  his  rifle  on  the  pro 
jecting  shelf  of  the  freight-car  and  followed  them. 

Presently  he  came  to  deep  shadow,  where  he  paused. 
Low  voices  drew  him  on  again,  then  a  light  made  him 

109 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

thrill.  Now  and  then  the  light  appeared  to  be  darkened 
by  moving  figures.  A  dark  object  loomed  up  to  cut  off 
Kurt's  view.  It  was  a  pile  of  railroad  ties,  and  beyond  it 
loomed  another.  Stealing  along  these,  he  soon  saw  the 
light  again,  quite  close.  By  its  glow  he  recognized  his 
father's  huge  frame,  back  to  him,  and  the  burly  Neuman 
on  the  other  side,  and  Glidden,  whose  dark  face  was  work 
ing  as  he  talked.  These  three  were  sitting,  evidently  on  a 
flat  pile  of  ties,  and  the  other  two  men  stood  behind. 
Kurt  could  not  make  out  the  meaning  of  the  low  voices. 
Pressing  closer  to  the  freight-car,  he  cautiously  and  noise 
lessly  advanced. 

Glidden  was  importuning  with  expressive  hands  and 
swift,  low  utterance.  His  face  gleamed  dark,  hard,  strong, 
intensely  strung  with  corded,  quivering  muscles,  with  eyes 
apparently  green  orbs  of  fire.  He  spoke  in  German. 

Kurt  dared  not  go  closer  unless  he  wanted  to  be  dis 
covered,  and  not  yet  was  he  ready  for  that.  He  might 
hear  some  word  to  help  explain  his  father's  strange, 
significant  intimations  about  Anderson. 

".  .  .  must — have — money,"  Glidden  was  saying.  To 
Kurt's  eyes  treachery  gleamed  in  that  working  face.  Neu 
man  bent  over  to  whisper  gruffly  in  Dorn's  ear.  One 
of  the  silent  men  standing  rubbed  his  hands  together. 
Old  Dorn's  head  was  bowed.  Then  Glidden  spoke  so 
low  and  so  swiftly  that  Kurt  could  not  connect  sentences, 
but  with  mounting  blood  he  stood  transfixed  and  horrified, 
to  gather  meaning  from  word  on  word,  until  he  realized 
Anderson's  doom,  with  other  rich  men  of  the  Northwest, 
was  sealed — that  there  were  to  be  burnings  of  wheat-fields 
and  of  storehouses  and  of  freight-trains — destruction 
everywhere. 

''I  give  money,"  said  old  Dorn,  and  with  heavy  move 
ment  he  drew  from  inside  his  coat  a  large  package  wrapped 
in  newspaper.  He  laid  it  before  him  in  the  light  and  began 
to  unwrap  it.  Soon  there  were  disclosed  two  bundles  of 
bills — the  eighty  thousand  dollars. 

no 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Kurt  thrilled  in  all  his  being.  His  poor  father  was  being 
misled  and  robbed.  A  melancholy  flash  of  comfort  came 
to  Kurt!  Then  at  sight  of  Glidden's  hungry  eyes  and 
working  face  and  clutching  hands  Kurt  pulled  his  hat 
far  down,  drew  his  revolver,  and  leaped  forward  with  a 
yell,  "Hands  up!" 

He  discharged  the  revolver  right  in  the  faces  of  the 
stunned  plotters,  and,  snatching  up  the  bundle  of  money, 
he  leaped  over  the  light,  knocking  one  of  the  men  down, 
and  was  gone  into  the  darkness,  without  having  slowed  in 
the  least  his  swift  action. 

Wheeling  round  the  end  of  the  freight-car,  he  darted 
back,  risking  a  hard  fall  in  the  darkness,  and  ran  along  the 
several  cars  to  the  first  one,  where  he  grasped  his  rifle  and 
kept  on.  He  heard  his  father's  roar,  like  that  of  a  mad 
bull,  and  shrill  yells  from  the  other  men.  Kurt  laughed 
grimly.  They  would  never  catch  him  in  the  dark.  While 
he  ran  he  stuffed  the  money  into  his  inside  coat  pockets. 
Beyond  the  railroad  station  he  slowed  down  to  catch  his 
breath.  His  breast  was  heaving,  his  pulse  hammering, 
and  his  skin  was  streaming.  The  excitement  was  the 
greatest  under  which  he  had  ever  labored. 

"Now— what  shall— I  do?"  he  panted.  A  freight- 
train  was  lumbering  toward  him  and  the  head-light  was 
almost  at  the  station.  The  train  appeared  to  be  going 
slowly  through  without  stopping.  Kurt  hurried  on  down 
the  track  a  little  farther.  Then  he  waited.  He  would  get 
on  that  train  and  make  his  way  somehow  to  Ruxton, 
there  to  warn  Anderson  of  the  plot  against  his  life. 


CHAPTER  X 

Ix^URT  rode  to  Adrian  on  that  freight,  and  upon  arriv- 
iV  ing  in  the  yards  there  he  jumped  off,  only  to  mount 
another,  headed  south.  He  meant  to  be  traveling  while  it 
was  dark.  No  passenger-trains  ran  at  night  and  he  wanted 
to  put  as  much  distance  between  him  and  Wheatly  as 
possible  before  daylight. 

He  had  piled  into  an  open  box-car.  It  was  empty,  at 
least  of  freight,  and  the  floor  appeared  to  have  a  thin  cover 
ing  of  hay.  The  train,  gathering  headway,  made  a  rat 
tling,  rolling  roar.  Kurt  hesitated  about  getting  up  and 
groping  back  in  the  pitch-black  corners  of  the  car.  He 
felt  that  it  contained  a  presence  besides  his  own.  And 
suddenly  he  was  startled  by  an  object  blacker  than  the 
shadow,  that  sidled  up  close  to  him.  Kurt  could  not  keep 
the  cold  chills  from  chasing  up  and  down  his  back.  The 
object  was  a  man,  who  reached  for  Kurt  and  felt  of  him 
with  a  skinny  hand. 

"I.  W.  W.?"  he  whispered,  hoarsely,  in  Kurt's  ear. 

"Yes,"  replied  Kurt. 

"Was  that  Adrian  where  you  got  on?" 

"It  sure  was,"  answered  Kurt,  with  grim  humor. 

"Then  you're  the  feller?" 

"Sure,"  replied  Kurt.  It  was  evident  that  he  had 
embarked  upon  an  adventure. 

"When  do  we  stall  this  freight?" 

"Not  while  we're  on  it,  you  can  gamble." 

Other  dark  forms  sidled  out  of  the  gloomy  depths  of 
that  cavern-like  corner  and  drew  close  to  Kurt.  He 
realized  that  he  had  fallen  in  with  I.  W.  W.  men  v/ho 
apparently  had  taken  him  for  an  expected  messenger  or 
leader.  Pie  was  importuned  for  tobacco,  drink,  and  money, 
and  he  judged  that  his  begging  companions  consisted  of  an 

IZ2 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

American  tramp,  an  Austrian,  a  negro,  and  a  German. 
Fine  society  to  fall  into!  That  eighty  thousand  dollars 
became  a  tremendous  burden. 

"How  many  men  on  this  freight?"  queried  Kurt, 
thinking  he  could  ask  questions  better  than  answer  them. 
And  he  was  told  there  were  about  twenty-five,  all  of  whom 
expected  money.  At  this  information  Kurt  rather  closely 
pressed  his  hand  upon  the  revolver  in  his  side  coat  pocket. 
By  asking  questions  and  making  judicious  replies  he  passed 
what  he  felt  was  the  dark  mark  in  that  mixed  company  of 
I.  W.  W.  men;  and  at  length,  one  by  one,  they  melted 
away  to  their  warmer  corners,  leaving  Kurt  by  the  door. 
He  did  not  mind  the  cold.  He  wanted  to  be  where,  at  the 
first  indication  of  a  stop,  he  could  jump  off  the  train. 

With  his  hand  on  his  gun  and  hugging  the  bulging  coat 
pockets  close  to  him,  Kurt  settled  himself  for  what  he 
believed  would  be  interminable  hours.  He  strained  eyes 
and  ears  for  a  possible  attack  from  the  riffraff  I.  W.  W. 
men  hidden  there  in  the  car.  And  that  was  why,  perhaps, 
that  it  seemed  only  a  short  while  until  the  train  bumped 
and  slowed,  preparatory  to  stopping.  The  instant  it 
was  safe  Kurt  jumped  out  and  stole  away  in  the  gloom. 
A  fence  obstructed  further  passage.  He  peered  around  to 
make  out  that  he  was  in  a  road.  Thereupon  he  hurried 
along  it  until  he  was  out  of  hearing  of  the  train.  There 
was  light  in  the  east,  heralding  a  dawn  that  Kurt  surely 
would  welcome.  He  sat  down  to  wait,  and  addressed  to 
his  bewildered  judgment  a  query  as  to  whether  or  not  he 
ought  to  keep  on  carrying  the  burdensome  rifle.  It  was 
not  only  heavy,  but  when  daylight  came  it  might  attract 
attention,  and  his  bulging  coat  would  certainly  invite 
curiosity.  He  was  in  a  predicament;  nevertheless,  he 
decided  to  hang  on  to  the  rifle. 

He  almost  fell  asleep,  waiting  there  with  his  back  against 
a  fence-post.  The  dawn  came,  and  then  the  rosy  sunrise. 
And  he  discovered,  not  half  a  mile  away,  a  good-sized 
town  ,  where  he  believed  he  surely  could  hire  an  automobile. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Waiting  grew  to  be  so  tedious  that  he  decided  to  risk 
the  early  hour,  and  proceeded  toward  the  town.  Upon 
the  outskirts  he  met  a  farmer  boy,  who,  in  reply  to  a 
question,  said  that  the  town  was  Connell.  Kurt  found 
another  early  riser  in  the  person  of  a  blacksmith  who 
evidently  was  a  Yankee  and  proud  of  it.  He  owned  a  car 
that  he  was  willing  to  hire  out  on  good  security.  Kurt 
satisfied  him  on  that  score,  and  then  proceeded  to  ask 
how  to  get  across  the  Copper  River  and  into  Golden 
Valley.  The  highway  followed  the  railroad  from  that 
town  to  Kahlotus,  and  there  crossed  a  big  trunk-line  rail 
road,  to  turn  south  toward  the  river. 

In  half  an  hour,  during  which  time  Kurt  was  enabled  to 
breakfast,  the  car  was  ready.  It  was  a  large  car,  rather 
ancient  and  the  worse  for  wear,  but  its  owner  assured 
Kurt  that  it  would  take  him  where  he  wanted  to  go  and 
he  need  not  be  afraid  to  drive  fast.  With  that  inspiring 
knowledge  Kurt  started  off. 

Before  ten  o'clock  Kurt  reached  Kilo,  far  across  the 
Copper  River,  with  the  Blue  Mountains  in  sight,  and  from 
there  less  confusing  directions  to  follow.  He  had  been 
lucky.  He  had  passed  the  wreck  of  the  freight-train  upon 
which  he  had  ridden  from  Adrian;  his  car  had  been  sur 
rounded  by  rough  men,  and  only  quick  wits  saved  him  at 
least  delay;  he  had  been  hailed  by  more  than  one  group 
of  tramping  I.  W.  W.  men;  and  he  had  passed  camps  and 
freight-yards  where  idlers  were  congregated.  And  lastly, 
he  had  seen,  far  across  the  valley,  a  pall  of  smoke  from 
forest  fire. 

He  was  going  to  reach  "  Many  Waters  "  in  time  to  warn 
Anderson,  and  that  fact  gave  him  strange  exultation. 
When  it  was  assured  and  he  had  the  eighty  thousand 
dollars  deposited  in  a  bank  he  could  feel  that  his  gray, 
gloomy  future  would  have  several  happy  memories.  How 
would  Lenore  Anderson  feel  toward  a  man  who  had 
saved  her  father?  The  thought  was  too  rich,  too  sweet 
for  Kurt  to  dwell  upon. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Before  noon  Kurt  begaii  to  climb  gradually  up  off  the 
wonderfully  fertile  bottom-lands  where  the  endless  or 
chards  and  boundless  gardens  delighted  his  eye,  and  the 
towns  grew  fewer  arid  farther  between.  Kurt  halted  at 
Huntington  for  water,  and  when  he  was  about  ready  to 
start  a  man  rushed  out  of  a  store,  glanced  hurriedly  up  and 
down  the  almost  deserted  street,  and,  espying  Kurt,  ran 
to  him. 

"Message  over  'phone!  I.  W.  W.!  Hell  to  pay!"  he 
cried,  excitedly. 

"What's  up?  Tell  me  the  message,"  replied  Kurt, 
calmly. 

"It  just  come — from  Vale.  Anderson,  the  big  rancher! 
He  'phoned  to  send  men  out  on  all  roads — to  stop  his 
car!  His  daughter's  in  it!  She's  been  made  off  with! 
I.W.W.'s!" 

Kurt's  heart  leaped.  The  bursting  blood  burned 
through  him  and  receded  to  leave  him  cold,  tingling. 
Anything  might  happen  to  him  this  day!  He  reached 
inside  the  seat  to  grasp  the  disjointed  rifle,  and  three 
swift  movements  seemed  to  serve  to  unwrap  it  and  put 
the  pieces  together. 

"What  else  did  Anderson  say?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

"That  likely  the  car  would  head  for  the  hills,  where  the 
I.  W.  W.'s  are  camped." 

"What  road  from  here  leads  that  way?" 

"Take  the  left-hand  road  at  the  end  of  town,"  replied 
the  man,  more  calmly.  "Ten  miles  down  you'll  come  to  a 
fork.  There's  where  the  I.  W.  W.'s  will  turn  off  to  go  up 
into  the  foot-hills.  Anderson  just  'phoned.  You  can 
head  off  his  car  if  it's  on  the  hill  road.  But  you'll  have 
to  drive.  .  .  .  Do  you  know  Anderson's  car?  Don't  you 
want  men  with  you?" 

"No  time!"  called  Kurt,  as  he  leaped  into  the  seat  and 
jammed  on  the  power. 

"I'll  send  cars  all  over,"  shouted  the  man,  as  Kurt 
whirred  away. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Kurt's  eyes  and  hands  and  feet  hurt  with  the  sudden 
intensity  of  strain.  All  his  nervous  force  seemed  set 
upon  the  one  great  task  of  driving  and  guiding  that  car  at 
the  limit  of  its  speed.  Huntington  flashed  behind,  two 
indistinct  streaks  of  houses.  An  open  road,  slightly  rising, 
stretched  ahead.  The  wind  pressed  so  hard  that  he  could 
scarcely  breathe.  The  car  gave  forth  a  humming  roar. 

Kurt's  heart  labored,  swollen  and  tight,  high  in  his 
breast,  and  his  thoughts  were  swift,  tumultuous.  An 
agony  of  dread  battled  with  a  dominating  but  strange 
certainty.  He  felt  belief  in  his  luck.  Circumstances  one 
by  one  had  led  to  this  drive,  and  in  every  one  passed  by  he 
felt  the  direction  of  chance. 

He  sped  by  fields  of  wheat,  a  wagon  that  he  missed  by  an 
inch,  some  stragglers  on  the  road,  and  then,  far  ahead,  he 
saw  a  sign-post  of  the  forks.  As  he  neared  it  he  gradually 
shut  off  the  power,  to  stop  at  the  cross-roads.  There  he 
got  out  to  search  for  fresh  car  tracks  turning  up  to  the 
right.  There  were  none.  If  Anderson's  car  was  coming 
on  that  road  he  would  meet  it. 

Kurt  started  again,  but  at  reasonable  speed,  while  his 
eyeswere  sharp  on  the  road  ahead.  It  was  empty.  It  sloped 
down  for  a  long  way,  and  made  a  wide  curve  to  the  right, 
along  the  base  of  hilly  pastureland,  and  then  again  turned. 
And  just  as  Kurt's  keen  gaze  traveled  that  far  a  big  auto 
mobile  rounded  the  bend,  coming  fast.  He  recognized  the 
red  color,  the  shape  of  the  car. 

"Anderson's!"  he  cried,  with  that  same  lift  of  his  heart, 
that  bursting  gush  of  blood.  "No  dream!  ...  I  see 
it!  ...  And  I'll  stop  it!" 

The  advantage  was  all  his.  He  would  run  along  at 
reasonable  speed,  choose  a  narrow  place,  stop  his  car  so  as 
to  obstruct  the  road,  and  get  out  with  his  rifle. 

It  seemed  a  long  stretch  down  that  long  slope,  and  his 
car  crept  along,  while  the  other  gradually  closed  the  gap. 
Slower  and  slower  Kurt  ran,  then  turned  half  across  the 
road  and  stopped.  When  he  stepped  out  the  other  car  was 

116 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

two  hundred  yards  or  more  distant.  Kurt  saw  when  the 
driver  slackened  his  speed.  There  appeared  to  be  only 
two  people  in  the  car,  both  in  front.  But  Kurt  could  not 
be  sure  of  that  until  it  was  only  fifty  yards  away. 

Then  he  swung  out  his  rifle  and  waved  for  the  driver  to 
stop.  But  he  did  not  stop.  Kurt  heard  a  scream.  He 
saw  a  white  face.  He  saw  the  driver  swing  his  hand  across 
that  white  face,  dashing  it  back. 

"Halt !"  3^elled  Kurt,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 

But  the  driver  hunched  down  and  put  on  the  power. 
The  red  car  leaped.  As  it  flashed  by  Kurt  recognized 
Nash  and  Anderson's  daughter.  She  looked  terrified. 
Kurt  dared  not  shoot,  for  fear  of  hitting  the  girl.  Nash 
swerved,  took  the  narrow  space  left  him,  smashing  the 
right  front  wheel  of  Kurt's  car,  and  got  by. 

Kurt  stepped  aside  and  took  a  quick  shot  at  the  tire  of 
Nash's  left  hind  wheel.  He  missed.  His  heart  sank  and 
he  was  like  ice  as  he  risked  another.  The  little  high- 
power  bullet  struck  and  blew  the  tire  off  the  wheel. 
Nash's  car  lurched,  skidded  into  the  bank  not  thirty  yards 
away. 

With  a  bound  Kurt  started  for  it,  and  he  was  there  when 
Nash  had  twisted  out  of  his  seat  and  over  the  door. 

' '  Far  enough !  Don't  move !"  ordered  Kurt,  presenting 
the  rifle. 

Nash  was  ghastly  white,  with  hunted  eyes  and  open 
mouth,  and  his  hands  shook. 

"  Oh,  it's — Kurt  Dorn !"  cried  a  broken  voice. 

Kurt  saw  the  girl  fumble  with  the  door  on  her  side,  open 
it,  and  stagger  out  of  his  sight.  Then  she  reappeared 
round  the  car.  Bareheaded,  disheveled,  white  as  chalk, 
with  burning  eyes  and  bleeding  lips,  she  gazed  at  Kurt 
as  if  to  make  sure  of  her  deliverance. 

"  Miss  Anderson — if  he's  harmed  you — "  broke  out  Kurt, 
hoarsely. 

"Oh!  ...  Don't  kiU  him!  ...  He  hasn't  touched 
me,"  she  replied,  wildly. 

117 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"But  your  lips  are  bleeding  " 

' '  Are  they  ? ' '  She  put  a  trembling  hand  to  them.  ' '  He 
— he  struck  me.  .  .  .  That's  nothing.  .  .  .  But  you — you. 
have  saved  me — from  God  only  knows  what!'* 

"I  have?  From  him?"  demanded  Kurt.  "What  is 
he?" 

"He's  a  German!"  returned  Lenore,  and  red  burned  out 
of  the  white  of  her  cheeks.  "Secret  agent — I.  W.  V/.l 
.  .  .  Plotter  against  my  father's  life !  .  .  .  Oh,  he  knocked 
father  off  the  car — dragged  him!  .  .  .  He  ran  the  car 
away — with  me — forced  me  back — he  struck  me!  .  .  . 
Oh,  if  I  were  a  man!" 

Nash  responded  with  a  passion  that  made  his  face  drip 
with  sweat  and  distort  into  savage  fury  of  defeat  and  hate. 

"You  two-faced  cat!"  he  hissed.  "You  made  love  to 
me !  You  fooled  me !  You  let  me — ' ' 

"Shut  up!"  thundered  Kurt.  "You  German  dog!  I 
can't  murder  you,  because  I'm  American.  Do  you  get 
that?  But  I'll  beat  you  within  an  inch  of  your  life!" 

As  Kurt  bent  over  to  lay  down  the  rifle,  Nash  darted  a 
hand  into  the  seat  for  weapon  of  some  kind.  But  Kurt, 
in  a  rush,  knocked  him  over  the  front  guard.  Nash 
howled.  He  scrambled  up  with  bloody  mouth.  Kurt 
was  on  him  again. 

"Take  that!"  cried  Kurt,  low  and  hard,  as  he  swung  his 
arm.  The  big  fist  that  had  grasped  so  many  plow-handles 
took  Nash  full  on  that  bloody  mouth  and  laid  him  flat. 
' '  Come  on,  German !  Get  out  of  the  trench !' ' 

Like  a  dog  Nash  threshed  and  crawled,  scraping  his 
hands  in  the  dirt,  to  jump  up  and  fling  a  rock  that  Kurt 
ducked  by  a  narrow  margin.  Nash  followed  it,  swinging 
wildly,  beating  at  his  adversary. 

Passion  long  contained  burst  in  Kurt.  He  tasted  the 
salt  of  his  own  blood  where  he  had  bitten  his  lips.  Nash 
showed  as  in  a  red  haze.  Kurt  had  to  get  his  hands  on  this 
German,  and  when  he  did  it  liberated  a  strange  and  terrible 
joy  in  him.  No  weapon  would  have  sufficed.  Hardly 

118 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

aware  of  Nash's  blows,  Kurt  tore  at  him,  swung  and  choked 
him,  bore  him  down  on  the  bank,  and  there  beat  him  into 
a  sodden,  bloody-faced  heap. 

Only  then  did  a  cry  of  distress,  seemingly  from  far  off, 
pierce  Kurt's  ears.  Miss  Anderson  was  pulling  at  him 
with  frantic  hands. 

"Oh,  don't  kill  him!  Please  don't  kill  him!"  she  was 
crying.  "Kurt! — for  my  sake,  don't  kill  him!" 

That  last  poignant  appeal  brought  Kurt  to  his  senses. 
He  let  go  of  Nash.  He  allowed  the  girl  to  lead  him  back. 
Panting  hard,  he  tried  to  draw  a  deep,  full  breath. 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  move!"  whispered  Lenore,  with  wide 
eyes  on  Nash. 

"Miss  Anderson — he's  not — even  insensible,"  panted 
Kurt.  "But  he's  licked — good  and  hard." 

The  girl  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  car,  with  a  hand 
buried  in  her  heaving  breast.  She  was  recovering.  The 
gray  shade  left  her  face.  Her  eyes,  still  wide  and  dark 
and  beginning  to  glow  with  softer  emotions,  were  upon 
Kurt. 

"You — you  were  the  one  to  come,"  she  murmured. 
"I  prayed.  I  was  terribly  frightened.  Ruenke  was 
taking  me — to  the  I.  W.  W.  camp,  up  in  the  hills." 

"Ruenke?"  queried  Kurt. 

"Yes,  that's  his  German  name." 

Kurt  awoke  to  the  exigencies  of  the  situation.  Search 
ing  in  the  car,  he  found  a  leather  belt.  With  this  he  se 
curely  bound  Ruenke's  hands  behind  his  back,  then 
rolled  him  down  into  the  road. 

"My  first  German  prisoner,"  said  Kurt,  half  seriously. 
"Now,  Miss  Anderson,  we  must  be  doing  things.  We 
don't  want  to  meet  a  lot  of  I.  W.  W.'s  out  here.  My  car  is 
out  of  commission.  I  hope  yours  is  not  broken." 

Kurt  got  into  the  car  and  found,  to  his  satisfaction, 
that  it  was  not  damaged  so  far  as  running-gear  was  con 
cerned.  After  changing  the  ruined  tire  he  backed  down 
the  road  and  turned  to  stop  near  where  Ruenke  lay. 

up 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Opening  the  rear  door,  Kurt  picked  him  up  as  if  he  had 
been  a  sack  of  wheat  and  threw  him  into  the  car.  Next 
he  secured  the  rifle  that  had  been  such  a  burden  and  had 
served  him  so  well  in  the  end. 

''Get  in,  Miss  Anderson,"  he  said,  "and  show  me  where 
to  drive  you  home." 

She  got  in  beside  him,  making  a  grimace  as  she  saw 
Ruenke  lying  behind  her.  Kurt  started  and  ran  slowly  by 
the  damaged  car. 

"He  knocked  a  wheel  off.     I'll  have  to  send  back." 

"Oh,  I  thought  it  was  all  over  when  we  hit!"  said  the 
girl. 

Kurt  experienced  a  relaxation  that  was  weakening.  He 
could  hardly  hold  the  wheel  and  his  mood  became  one  of 
exaltation. 

"Father  suspected  this  Ruenke,"  went  on  Lenore. 
"But  he  wanted  to  find  out  things  from  him.  And  I — 
I  undertook — to  twist  Mr.  Germany  round  my  finger. 
I  made  a  mess  of  it.  ...  He  lied.  I  didn't  make  love  to 
him.  But  I  listened  to  his  love-making,  and  arrogant 
German  love-making  it  was!  I'm  afraid  I  made  eyes  at 
him  and  let  him  believe  I  was  smitten.  .  .  .  Oh,  and  all 
for  nothing!  I'm  ashamed.  .  .  .  But  he  lied!" 

Her  confidence,  at  once  pathetic  and  humorous  and 
contemptuous,  augmented  Kurt's  Homeric  mood.  He 
understood  that  she  would  not  even  let  him,  for  a  moment, 
have  a  wrong  impression  of  her. 

"It  must  have  been  hard,"  agreed  Kurt.  "Didn't  you 
find  out  anything  at  all?" 

"Not  much,"  she  replied.  Then  she  put  a  hand  on  his 
sleeve.  "Your  knuckles  are  all  bloody." 

'  *  So  they  are.     I  got  that  punching  our  German  friend. ' ' 

"Oh,  how  you  did  beat  him!"  she  cried.  "I  had  to 
look.  My  ire  was  up,  too!  .  .  .  It  wasn't  very  womanly — 
of  me — that  I  gloried  in  the  sight." 

"But  you  cried  out — you  pulled  me  away!"  exclaimed 
Kurt 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"That  was  because  I  was  afraid  you'd  kill  him,"  she 
replied. 

Kurt  swerved  his  glance,  for  an  instant,  to  her  face. 
It  was  at  once  flushed  and  pale,  with  the  deep  blue  of 
downcast  eyes  shadowy  through  her  long  lashes,  exceed 
ingly  sweet  and  beautiful  to  Kurt's  sight.  He  bent  his 
glance  again  to  the  road  ahead.  Miss  Anderson  felt  kindly 
and  gratefully  toward  him,  as  was,  of  course,  natural. 
But  she  was  somehow  different  from  what  she  had  seemed 
upon  the  other  occasions  he  had  seen  her.  Kurt's  heart 
was  full  to  bursting. 

"I  might  have  killed  him,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad — you 
stopped  me.  That — that  frenzy  of  mine  seemed  to  be  the 
breaking  of  a  dam.  I  have  been  dammed  up  within. 
Something  had  to  break.  I've  been  unhappy  for  a  long 
time." 

"I  saw  that.     What  about?"  she  replied. 

"The  war,  and  what  it's  done  to  father.  We're  es 
tranged.  I  hate  everything  German.  I  loved  the  farm. 
My  chance  in  life  is  gone.  The  wheat  debt — the  worry 
about  the  I.  W.  W.— and  that's  not  all." 

Again  she  put  a  gentle  hand  on  his  sleeve  and  left  it 
there  for  a  moment.  The  touch  thrilled  all  through  Kurt. 

"I'm  sorry.  Your  position  is  sad.  But  maybe  it  is  not 
utterly  hopeless.  You — you'll  come  back  after  the  war." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  want  to  come  back,"  he  said. 
For  then — it  'd  be  just  as  bad — worse.  .  .  .  Miss  Ander 
son,  it  won't  hurt  to  tell  you  the  truth.  ...  A  year  ago — • 
that  first  time  I  saw  you — I  fell  in  love  with  you.  I 
think — when  I'm  away — over  in  France — I'd  like  to 
feel  that  you  know.  It  can't  hurt  you.  And  it  '11  be 
sweet  to  me.  ...  I  fought  against  the — the  madness. 
But  fate  was  against  me.  ...  I  saw  you  again.  .  .  .  And 
it  was  all  over  with  me!" 

He  paused,  catching  his  breath.  She  was  perfectly 
quiet.  He  looked  on  down  the  winding  road.  There 
were  dust-clouds  in  the  distance. 

121 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"I'm  afraid  I  grew  bitter  and  moody,"  he  went  on. 
"But  the  last  forty-eight  hours  have  changed  me  for 
ever.  ...  I  found  that  my  poor  old  dad  had  been  won 
over  by  these  unscrupulous  German  agents  of  the  I.  W.  W. 
But  I  saved  his  name.  .  .  .  I've  got  the  money  he 
took  for  the  wheat  we  may  never  harvest.  But  if  we  do 
harvest  I  can  pay  all  our  debt.  .  .  .  Then  I  learned  of  a 
plot  to  ruin  your  father — to  kill  him!  ...  I  was  on  my 
way  to  'Many  Waters.'  I  can  warn  him.  .  .  .  Last 
of  all  I  have  saved  you." 

The  little  hand  dropped  away  from  his  coat  sleeve. 
A  soft,  half -smothered  cry  escaped  her.  It  seemed  to 
him  she  was  about  to  weep  in  her  exceeding  pity. 

"  Miss  Anderson,  I — I'd  rather  not  have — you  pity  me." 

"Mr.  Dorn,  I  certainly  don't  pity  you,"  she  replied, 
with  an  unexpected,  strange  tone.  It  was  full.  It  seemed 
to  ring  in  his  ears. 

"  I  know  there  never  was  and  never  could  be  any  hope  for 
me.  I— I—" 

"Oh,  you  knov/  that!"  murmured  the  soft,  strange 
voice. 

But  Kurt  could  not  trust  his  ears  and  he  had  to  make 
haste  to  terminate  the  confession  into  which  his  folly  and 
emotion  had  betrayed  him.  He  scarcely  heard  her  words. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  I  told  you  why  I  wanted  you  to  know.  .  .  . 
And  now  forget  that — and  when  I'm  gone — if  you  think 
of  me  ever,  let  it  be  about  how  much  better  it  made  me — 
to  have  all  this  good  luck — to  help  your  father  and  to 
save  you!" 

The  dust-cloud  down  the  road  came  from  a  string  of 
automobiles,  flying  along  at  express  speed.  Kurt  saw 
them  with  relief. 

"Here  come  the  cars  on  your  trail,"  he  called  out. 
"Your  father  will  be  in  one  of  them." 

Kurt  opened  the  door  of  the  car  and  stepped  down. 
He  could  not  help  his  importance  or  his  pride.  Anderson, 

122 


Q    H 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

who  came  running  between  two  cars  that  had  stopped 
abreast,  was  coatless  and  hatless,  covered  with  dust, 
pale  and  fire-eyed. 

"Mr.  Anderson,  your  daughter  is  safe — unharmed," 
Kurt  assured  him. 

"My  girl!"  cried  the  father,  huskily,  and  hurried  to 
where  she  leaned  out  of  her  seat. 

"All  right,  dad,"  she  cried,  as  she  embraced  him. 
"Only  a  little  shaky  yet." 

It  was  affecting  for  Dorn  to  see  that  meeting,  and 
through  it  to  share  something  of  its  meaning.  Anderson's 
thick  neck  swelled  and  colored,  and  his  utterance  was 
unintelligible.  His  daughter  loosened  her  arm  from  round 
him  and  turned  her  face  toward  Kurt.  Then  he  imagined 
he  saw  two  blue  stars,  sweetly,  strangely  shining  upon 
him. 

"Father,  it  was  our  friend  from  the  Bend,"  she  said. 
"He  happened  along." 

Anderson  suddenly  changed  to  the  cool,  smiling  man 
Kurt  remembered. 

"Howdy,  Kurt?"  he  said,  and  crushed  Kurt's  hand. 
"What  'd  you  do  to  him?" 

Kurt  made  a  motion  toward  the  back  of  the  car.  Then 
Anderson  looked  over  the  seats.  With  that  he  opened 
the  door  and  in  one  powerful  haul  he  drew  Ruenke  sliding 
out  into  the  road.  Ruenke's  bruised  and  bloody  face  was 
uppermost,  a  rather  gruesome  sight.  Anderson  glared 
down  upon  him,  while  men  from  the  other  cars  crowded 
around.  Ruenke's  eyes  resembled  those  of  a  cornered 
rat.  Anderson's  jaw  bulged,  his  big  hands  clenched. 

"Bill,  you  throw  this  fellow  in  your  car  and  land 
him  in  jail.  I'll  make  a  charge  against  him,"  said  the 
rancher. 

"Mr.    Anderson,    I   can   save   some   valuable   time," 
interposed  Kurt.     "I've  got  to  return  a  car  I  broke  down. 
And  there's  my  wheat.     Will  you  have  one  of  these  men 
drive  me  back?" 
9  123 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Sure.  But  won't  you  come  home  with  us?"  said 
Anderson. 

"I'd  like  to.  But  I  must  get  home,"  replied  Kurt. 
"Please  let  me  speak  a  few  words  for  your  ear  alone." 
He  drew  Anderson  aside  and  briefly  told  about  the  eighty 
thousand  dollars;  threw  back  his  coat  to  show  the  bulg 
ing  pockets.  Then  he  asked  Anderson's  advice. 

"I'd  deposit  the  money  an'  wire  the  Spokane  miller/' 
returned  the  rancher.  "I  know  him.  He'll  leave  the 
money  in  the  bank  till  your  wheat  is  safe.  Go  to  the 
national  bank  in  Kilo.  Mention  my  name." 

Then  Kurt  told  Anderson  of  the  plot  against  his  fortunes 
and  his  life. 

"Neuman!  I.  W.  W.!  German  intrigue!"  growled 
the  rancher.  "All  in  the  same  class!  .  .  .  Dorn,  I'm 
forewarned,  an'  that's  forearmed.  I'll  beat  this  outfit 
at  their  own  game." 

They  returned  to  Anderson's  car.  Kurt  reached  inside 
for  his  rifle. 

"Aren't  you  going  home  with  us?"  asked  the  girl. 

"Why,  Miss  Anderson,  I — I'm  sorry.  I — I'd  love  to 
see  'Many  Waters,'"  floundered  Kurt.  "But  I  can't 
go  now.  There's  no  need.  I  must  hurry  back  to — to 
my  troubles." 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  something — at  home,"  she  re 
turned,  shyly. 

"Tell  me  now,"  said  Kurt. 

She  gave  him  such  a  glance  as  he  had  never  received  in 
his  life.  Kurt  felt  himself  as  wax  before  those  blue  eyes. 
She  wanted  to  thank  him.  That  would  be  sweet,  but 
would  only  make  his  ordeal  harder.  He  steeled  himself. 

"You  won't  come?"  she  asked,  and  her  smile  was 
wistful. 

"No — thank  you  ever  so  much." 

"Will  you  come  to  see  me  before  you — you  go  to  war?" 

"I'll   try." 

"But  you  must  promise.  You've  done  so  much  for 

124 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

me  and  my  father.  .  .  .  I — I  want  you  to  come  to  see 
me — at  my  home." 

"Then  I'll  come,"  he  replied. 

Anderson  clambered  into  the  car  beside  his  daughtei 
and  Laid  his  big  hands  on  the  wheel. 

"Sure  he'll  come,  or  we'll  go  after  him,"  he  declared, 
heartily.  "So  long,  son." 


CHAPTER  XI 

E\TE   in   the  forenoon   of   the  next  day  Kurt  Dorn 
reached  home.     A  hot  harvest  wind  breathed  off  the 
wheat-fields.     It  swelled  his  heart  to  see  the  change  in 
the  color  of  that  section  of  Bluestem — the  gold  had  a  tinge 
of  rich,  ripe  brown. 

Kurt's  father  awaited  him,  a  haggard,  gloomy-faced 
man,  unkempt  and  hollow-eyed. 

"Was  it  you  who  robbed  me?"  he  shouted,  hoarsely. 
"Yes,"  replied  Kurt.  He  had  caught  the  eager  hope 
and  fear  in  the  old  man's  tone.  Kurt  expected  that 
confession  would  bring  on  his  father's  terrible  fury,  a 
mood  to  dread.  But  old  Dorn  showed  immense  relief. 
He  sat  down  in  his  relaxation  from  what  must  have  been 
intense  strain.  Kurt  saw  a  weariness,  a  shade,  in  the  gray 
lined  face  that  had  never  been  there  before. 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  money?"  asked  the  old 
man. 

"I  banked  it  in  Kilo,"  replied  Kurt.  "Then  I  wired 
your  miller  in  Spokane.  ...  So  you're  safe  if  we  can 
harvest  the  wheat." 

Old  Dorn  nodded  thoughtfully.  There  had  come  a 
subtle  change  in  him.  Presently  he  asked  Kurt  if  men 
had  been  hired  for  the  harvest. 

"No.  I've  not  seen  any  I  would  trust,"  replied  Kurt, 
and  then  he  briefly  outlined  Anderson's  plan  to  insure  a 
quick  and  safe  harvesting  of  the  grain.  Old  Dorn  ob 
jected  to  this  on  account  of  the  expense.  Kurt  argued 
with  him  and  patiently  tried  to  show  him  the  imperative 
need  of  it.  Dorn,  apparently,  was  not  to  be  won  over; 
however,  he  was  remarkably  mild  in  comparison  with 
what  Kurt  had  expected. 

"Father,  do  you  realize  now  that  the  men  you  wer 

126 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

dealing  with  at  Wheatly  are  dishonest?  I  mean  with  you. 
They  would  betray  you." 

Old  Dorn  had  no  answer  for  this.  Evidently  he  had  sus 
tained  some  kind  of  shock  that  he  was  not  willing  to  admit. 

"Look  here,  father,"  went  on  Kurt,  in  slow  earnestness. 
He  spoke  in  English,  because  nothing  would  make  him 
break  his  word  and  ever  again  speak  a  word  of  German. 
And  his  father  was  not  quick  to  comprehend  English. 
"Can't  you  see  that  the  I.  W.  W.  mean  to  cripple  us 
wheat  farmers  this  harvest?" 

P"No,"  replied  old  Dorn,  stubbornly. 
"But  they  do.  They  don't  want  work.  If  they  accept 
work  it  is  for  a  chance  to  do  damage.  All  this  I.  W.  W. 
talk  about  more  wages  and  shorter  hours  is  deceit.  They 
make  a  bold  face  of  discontent.  That  is  all  a  lie.  The 
I.  W.  W.  is  out  to  ruin  the  great  wheat-fields  and  the 
great  lumber  forests  of  the  Northwest." 

"I  do  not  believe  that,"  declared  his  father,  stoutly. 
"What  for?" 

Kurt  meant  to  be  careful  of  that  subject. 

"No  matter  what  for.  It  does  not  make  any  difference 
what  it's  for.  We've  got  to  meet  it  to  save  our  wheat.  .  .  . 
Now  won't  you  believe  me?  Won't  you  let  me  manage 
the  harvest?" 

"I  will  not  believe,"  replied  old  Dorn,  stubbornly. 
"Not  about  my  wheat.  I  know  they  mean  to  destroy. 
They  are  against  rich  men  like  Anderson.  But  not  me 
or  my  wheat!" 

"There  is  where  you  are  wrong.  I'll  prove  it  in  a  very 
few  days.  But  in  that  time  I  can  prepare  for  them  and 
outwit  them.  Will  you  let  me?" 

"Go  ahead,"  replied  old  Dorn,  gruffly. 

It  was  a  concession  that  Kurt  was  amazed  and  delighted 
to  gain.  And  he  set  about  at  once  to  act  upon  it.  He 
changed  his  clothes  and  satisfied  his  hunger;  then, 
saddling  his  horse,  he  started  out  to  visit  his  farmer 
neighbors. 

127 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

The  day  bade  fair  to  be  rich  in  experience.  Jerry, 
the  foreman,  was  patrolling  his  long  beat  up  and  down 
the  highway.  Jerry  carried  a  shot-gun  and  looked  like 
a  sentry.  The  men  under  him  were  on  the  other  side  of 
the  section  of  wheat,  and  the  ground  was  so  rolling  that 
they  could  not  be  seen  from  the  highway.  Jerry  was  un 
mistakably  glad  and  relieved  to  see  Kurt. 

"Some  goin's-on,"  he  declared,  with  a  grin.  "Since 
you  left  there's  been  one  hundred  and  sixteen  I.  W.  W. 
tramps  along  this  here  road." 

"Have  you  had  any  trouble?"  inquired  Kurt. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  it  wasn't  trouble,  but  every  time  I 
took  a  peg  at  some  sneak  I  sort  of  broke  out  sweatin' 
cold." 

"You  shot  at  them?" 

"Sure  I  shot  when  I  seen  any  loafm'  along  in  the  dark. 
Two  of  them  shot  back  at  me,  an'  after  thet  I  wasn't 
particular  to  aim  high.  .  .  .  Reckon  I'm  about  dead 
for  sleep." 

"I'll  relieve  you  to-night,"  replied  Kurt.  "Jerry, 
doesn't  the  wheat  look  great?" 

"Wai,  I  reckon.  An'  walkin'  along  here  when  it's 
quiet  an'  no  wind  blowin',  I  can  just  hear  the  wheat 
crack.  It's  gittin'  ripe  fast,  an'  sure  the  biggest  crop  we 
ever  raised.  .  .  .  But  I'm  tellin'  you — when  I  think  how 
we'll  ever  harvest  it  my  insides  just  sinks  like  lead!" 

Kurt  then  outlined  Anderson's  plan,  which  was  received 
by  the  foreman  with  eager  approval  and  the  assurance 
that  the  neighbor  farmers  would  rally  to  his  call. 

Kurt  found  his  nearest  neighbor,  Olsen,  cutting  a  thin, 
scarcely  ripe  barley.  Olsen  was  running  a  new  Mc- 
Cormack  harvester,  and  appeared  delighted  with  the 
machine,  but  cast  down  by  the  grain  prospects.  He  did 
not  intend  to  cut  his  wheat  at  all.  It  was  a  dead  loss. 

"Two  sections — twelve  hundred  an'  eighty  acres!" 
he  repeated,  gloomily.  "An'  the  third  bad  year!  Dorn, 
I  can't  pay  the  interest  to  my  bank." 

128 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Olsen's  sun-dried  and  wind-carved  visage  was  as  hard 
and  rugged  and  heroic  as  this  desert  that  had  resisted 
him  for  years.  Kurt  saw  under  the  lines  and  the  bronze 
all  the  toil  and  pain  and  unquenchable  hope  that  had 
made  Olsen  a  type  of  the  men  who  had  cultivated  this 
desert  of  wheat. 

"I'll  give  you  five  hundred  dollars  to  help  me  harvest," 
said  Kurt,  bluntly,  and  briefly  stated  his  plan. 

Olsen  whistled.  He  complimented  Anderson's  shrewd 
sense.  He  spoke  glowingly  of  that  magnificent  section 
of  wheat  that  absolutely  must  be  saved.  He  promised 
Kurt  every  horse  and  every  man  on  his  farm.  But  he 
refused  the  five  hundred  dollars. 

"Oh,  say,  you'll  have  to  accept  it,"  declared  Kurt. 

"You've  done  me  good  turns,"  asserted  Olsen. 

"But  nothing  like  this.  Why,  this  will  be  a  rush  job, 
with  all  the  men  and  horses  and  machines  and  wagons  I 
can  get.  It  '11  cost  ten — fifteen  thousand  dollars  to  har 
vest  that  section.  Even  at  that,  and  paying  Anderson, 
we'll  clear  twenty  thousand  or  more.  Olsen,  you've  got 
to  take  the  money." 

"All  right,  if  you  insist.  I'm  needin'  it  bad  enough," 
replied  Olsen. 

Further  conversation  with  Olsen  gleaned  the  facts 
that  he  was  the  only  farmer  in  their  immediate  neigh 
borhood  who  did  not  have  at  least  a  little  grain  worth 
harvesting.  But  the  amount  was  small  and  would  re 
quire  only  slight  time.  Olsen  named  farmers  that  very 
likely  would  not  take  kindly  to  Dorn's  proposition,  and 
had  best  not  be  approached.  The  majority,  however, 
would  stand  by  him,  irrespective  of  the  large  wage  offered, 
because  the  issue  was  one  to  appeal  to  the  pride  of  the 
Bend  farmers.  Olsen  appeared  surprisingly  well  informed 
upon  the  tactics  of  the  I.  W.  W.,  and  predicted  that  they 
would  cause  trouble,  but  be  run  out  of  the  country.  He 
made  the  shrewd  observation  that  when  even  those  farm 
ers  who  sympathized  with  Germany  discovered  that 

129 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

their  wheat-fields  were  being  menaced  by  foreign  in 
fluences  and  protected  by  the  home  government,  they 
would  experience  a  change  of  heart.  Olsen  said  the  war 
would  be  a  good  thing  for  the  United  States,  because  they 
would  win  it,  and  during  the  winning  would  learn  and 
suffer  and  achieve  much. 

Kurt  rode  away  from  Olsen  in  a  more  thoughtful 
frame  of  mind.  How  different  and  interesting  the  points 
of  view  of  different  men!  Olsen  had  never  taken  the 
time  to  become  a  naturalized  citizen  of  the  United  States. 
There  had  never  been  anything  to  force  him  to  do  it. 
But  his  understanding  of  the  worth  of  the  United  States 
and  his  loyalty  to  it  were  manifest  in  his  love  for  his  wheat- 
lands.  In  fact,  they  were  inseparable.  Probably  there 
were  millions  of  pioneers,  emigrants,  aliens,  all  over  the 
country  who  were  like  Olsen,  who  needed  the  fire  of  the 
crucible  to  mold  them  into  a  unity  with  Americans.  Of 
such,  Americans  were  molded! 

Kurt  rode  all  day,  and  when,  late  that  night,  he  got 
home,  weary  and  sore  and  choked,  he  had  enlisted  the 
services  of  thirty-five  farmers  to  help  him  harvest  the 
now  famous  section  of  wheat. 

His  father  had  plainly  doubted  the  willingness  of  these 
neighbors  to  abandon  their  own  labors,  for  the  Bend 
exacted  toil  for  every  hour  of  every  season,  whether  rich 
or  poor  in  yield.  Likewise  he  was  plainly  moved  by  the 
facts.  His  seamed  and  shaded  face  of  gloom  had  a  moment 
of  light. 

"They  will  make  short  work  of  this  harvest,"  he  said, 
thoughtfully. 

"I  should  say  so,"  retorted  Kurt.  "We'll  harvest 
and  haul  that  grain  to  the  railroad  in  just  three  days." 

"Impossible!"  ejaculated  Dorn. 

"You'll  see,"  declared  Kurt.  "You'll  see  who's 
managing  this  harvest." 

He  could  not  restrain  his  little  outburst  of  pride.  For 

130 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

the  moment  the  great  overhanging  sense  of  calamity 
that  for  long  had  haunted  him  faded  into  the  background. 
It  did  seem  sure  that  they  would  save  this  splendid  yield 
of  wheat.  How  much  that  meant  to  Kurt — in  freedom 
from  debt,  in  natural  love  of  the  fruition  of  harvest,  in  the 
loyalty  to  his  government !  He  realized  how  strange  and 
strong  was  the  need  in  him  to  prove  he  was  American  to 
the  very  core  of  his  heart.  He  did  not  yet  understand 
that  incentive,  but  he  felt  it. 

After  eating  dinner  Kurt  took  his  rifle  and  went  out  to 
relieve  Jerry. 

"Only  a  few  more  days  and  nights!"  he  exclaimed  to 
his  foreman.  "Then  we'll  have  all  the  harvesters  in 
the  country  right  in  our  wheat." 

"Wai,  a  hell  of  a  lot  can  happen  before  then,"  de 
clared  Jerry,  pessimistically. 

Kurt  was  brought  back  to  realities  rather  suddenly. 
But  questioning  Jerry  did  not  elicit  any  new  or  immediate 
cause  for  worry.  Jerry  appeared  tired  out. 

"You  go  get  some  sleep,"  said  Kurt. 

"All  right.  Bill's  been  dividin'  this  night  watch  with 
me.  I  reckon  he'll  be  out  when  he  wakes  up,"  replied 
Jerry,  and  trudged  away. 

Kurt  shouldered  his  rifle  and  slowly  walked  along  the 
road  with  a  strange  sense  that  he  was  already  doing 
army  duty  in  protecting  property  which  was  at  once  his 
own  and  his  country's. 

The  night  was  dark,  cool,  and  quiet.  The  heavens 
were  starry  bright.  A  faint  breeze  brought  the  tiny 
crackling  of  the  wheat.  From  far  distant  came  the  bay 
of  a  hound.  The  road  stretched  away  pale  and  yellow 
into  the  gloom.  In  the  silence  and  loneliness  and  dark 
ness,  in  all  around  him,  and  far  across  the  dry,  whisper 
ing  fields,  there  was  an  invisible  presence  that  had  its 
affinity  in  him,  hovered  over  him  shadowless  and  immense, 
and  waved  in  the  bursting  wheat.  It  was  life.  He  felt 
the  wheat  ripening.  He  felt  it  in  reawakened  tenderness 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

for  his  old  father  and  in  the  stir  of  memory  of  Lenore 
Anderson.  The  past  active  and  important  hours  had 
left  little  room  for  thought  of  her. 

But  now  she  came  back  to  him,  a  spirit  in  keeping  with 
his  steps,  a  shadow  under  the  stars,  a  picture  of  sweet, 
wonderful  young  womanhood.  His  whole  relation  of 
thought  toward  her  had  undergone  some  marvelous 
change.  The  most  divine  of  gifts  had  been  granted 
him — an  opportunity  to  save  her  from  harm,  perhaps 
from  death.  He  had  served  her  father.  How  greatly 
he  could  not  tell,  but  if  measured  by  the  gratitude  in  her 
eyes  it  would  have  been  infinite.  He  recalled  that  ex 
pression — blue,  warm,  soft,  and  indescribably  strange 
with  its  unuttered  hidden  meaning.  It  was  all-satisfying 
for  him  to  realize  that  she  had  been  compelled  to  give 
him  a  separate  and  distinct  place  in  her  mind.  He  must 
stand  apart  from  all  others  she  knew.  It  had  been  his 
fortune  to  preserve  her  happiness  and  the  happiness  that 
she  must  be  to  sisters  and  mother,  and  that  some  day  she 
would  bestow  upon  some  lucky  man.  They  would  all 
owe  it  to  him.  And  Lenore  Anderson  knew  he  loved  her. 

These  things  had  transformed  his  relation  of  thought 
toward  her.  He  had  no  regret,  no  jealousy,  no  fear. 
Even  the  pang  of  suppressed  and  overwhelming  love  had 
gone  with  his  confession. 

But  he  did  remember  her  presence,  her  beauty,  her  intent 
blue  glance,  and  the  faint,  dreaming  smile  of  her  lips — re 
membered  them  with  a  thrill,  and  a  wave  of  emotion,  and 
a  contraction  of  his  heart.  He  had  promised  to  see  her 
once  more,  to  afford  her  the  opportunity,  no  doubt,  to 
thank  him,  to  try  to  make  him  see  her  gratitude.  He 
would  go,  but  he  wished  it  need  not  be.  He  asked  no 
more.  And  seeing  her  again  might  change  his  fulness  of 
joy  to  something  of  pain. 

So  Kurt  trod  the  long  road  in  the  darkness  and  silence, 
pausing,  and  checking  his  dreams  now  and  then,  to  lis 
ten  and  to  watch,  He  heard  no  suspicious  sounds,  nor 

132 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

did  he  meet  any  one.  The  night  was  melancholy,  with 
a  hint  of  fall  in  its  cool  breath. 

Soon  he  would  be  walking  a  beat  in  one  of  the  training- 
camps,  with  a  bugle-call  in  his  ears  and  the  turmoil  of 
thousands  of  soldiers  in  the  making  around  him:  soon, 
too,  he  would  be  walking  the  deck  of  a  transport,  looking 
back  down  the  moon-blanched  wake  of  the  ship  toward 
home,  listening  to  the  mysterious  moan  of  the  ocean; 
and  then  soon  feeling  under  his  feet  the  soil  of  a  foreign 
country,  with  hideous  and  incomparable  war  shrieking 
its  shell  furies  and  its  man  anguish  all  about  him.  But 
no  matter  how  far  away  he  ever  got,  he  knew  Lenore 
Anderson  would  be  with  him  as  she  was  there  on  that  dim, 
lonely,  starlit  country  road. 

And  in  these  long  hours  of  his  vigil  Kurt  Dorn  divined 
a  relation  between  his  love  for  Lenore  Anderson  and  a 
terrible  need  that  had  grown  upon  him.  A  need  of  his 
heart  and  his  soul!  More  than  he  needed  her,  if  even  in 
his  wildest  dreams  he  had  permitted  himself  visions  of  an 
earthly  paradise,  he  needed  to  prove  to  his  blood  and  his 
spirit  that  he  was  actually  and  truly  American.  He  had 
no  doubt  of  his  intelligence,  his  reason,  his  choice.  The 
secret  lay  hidden  in  the  depths  of  him,  and  he  knew  it 
came  from  the  springs  of  the  mother  who  had  begotten 
him.  His  mother  had  given  him  birth,  and  by  every  tie 
he  was  mostly  hers. 

Kurt  had  been  in  college  during  the  first  year  of  the 
world  war.  And  his  name,  his  fair  hair  and  complexion, 
his  fluency  in  German,  and  his  remarkable  efficiency  in 
handicrafts  had  opened  him  to  many  a  hint,  many  a 
veiled  sarcasm,  that  had  stung  him  like  a  poison  brand. 
There  was  injustice  in  all  this  war  spirit.  It  changed  the 
minds  of  men  and  women.  He  had  not  doubted  himself 
until  those  terrible  scenes  with  his  father,  and,  though  he 
had  reacted  to  them  as  an  American,  he  had  felt  the  draw 
ing,  burning  blood  tie.  He  hated  everything  German  and 
he  knew  he  was  wrong  in  doing  so.  He  had  clear  concep 
ts 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

tion  in  his  mind  of  the  difference  between  the  German  war 
motives  and  means,  and  those  of  the  other  nations. 

Kurt's  problem  was  to  understand  himself.  His  great 
fight  was  with  his  own  soul.  His  material  difficulties 
and  his  despairing  love  had  suddenly  been  transformed, 
so  that  they  had  lent  his  spirit  wings.  How  many  poor 
boys  and  girls  in  America  must  be  helplessly  divided 
between  parents  and  country!  How  many  faithful  and 
blind  parents,  obedient  to  the  laws  of  mind  and  heart, 
set  for  all  time,  must  see  a  favorite  son  go  out  to  fight 
against  all  they  had  held  sacred! 

That  was  all  bad  enough,  but  Kurt  had  more  to  con 
tend  with.  No  illusions  had  he  of  a  chastened  German 
spirit,  a  clarified  German  mind,  an  unbrutalized  German 
heart.  Kurt  knew  his  father.  What  would  change  hh 
father?  Nothing  but  death !  Death  for  himself  or  death 
for  his  only  son !  Kurt  had  an  incalculable  call  to  prove 
forever  to  himself  that  he  was  free.  He  had  to  spill  his 
own  blood  to  prove  himself,  or  he  had  to  spill  that  of  an 
enemy.  And  he  preferred  that  it  should  be  his  own. 
But  that  did  not  change  a  vivid  and  terrible  picture 
which  haunted  him  at  times.  He  saw  a  dark,  wide,  and 
barren  shingle  of  the  world,  a  desert  of  desolation  made 
by  man,  where,  strange,  windy  shrieks  and  thundering 
booms  and  awful  cries  went  up  in  the  night,  and  where 
drifting  palls  of  smoke  made  starless  sky,  and  bursts  of 
reddish  fires  made  hell. 

Suddenly  Kurt's  slow  pacing  along  the  road  was  halted, 
as  was  the  trend  of  his  thought.  He  was  not  sure  he  had 
heard  a  sound.  But  he  quivered  all  over.  The  night 
was  far  advanced  now;  the  wind  was  almost  still;  the 
wheat  was  smooth  and  dark  as  the  bosom  of  a  resting 
sea.  Kurt  listened.  He  imagined  he  heard,  far  away, 
the  faint  roar  of  an  automobile.  But  it  might  have  been 
a  train  on  the  railroad.  Sometimes  on  still  nights  he 
caught  sounds  like  that. 

Then  a  swish  in  the  wheat,  a  soft  thud,  very  low, 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

unmistakably  came  to  Kurt's  ear.  He  listened,  turning 
his  ear  to  the  wind.  Presently  he  heard  it  again— a 
sound  relating  both  to  wheat  and  earth.  In  a  hot  flash 
he  divined  that  some  one  had  thrown  fairly  heavy  bodies 
into  the  wheat-fields.  Phosphorus  cakes!  Kurt  held 
his  breath  while  he  peered  down  the  gloomy  road,  his 
heart  pounding,  his  hands  gripping  the  rifle.  And  when 
he  descried  a  dim  form  stealthily  coming  toward  him  he 
yelled,  "Halt!" 

Instantly  the  form  wavered,  moved  swiftly,  with 
quick  pad  of  footfalls.  Kurt  shot  once— twice— three 
times— and  aimed  as  best  he  could  to  hit.  The  form 
either  fell  or  went  on  out  of  sight  in  the  gloom.  Kurt 
answered  the  excited  shouts  of  his  men,  calling  them  to 
come  across  to  him.  Then  he  went  cautiously  down  the 
road,  peering  on  the  ground  for  a  dark  form.  But  he 
failed  to  find  it,  and  presently  had  to  admit  that  in  the 
dark  his  aim  had  been  poor.  Bill  came  out  to  relieve 
Kurt,  and  together  they  went  up  and  down  the  road  for  a 
mile  without  any  glimpse  of  a  skulking  form.  It  was 
almost  daylight  when  Kurt  went  home  to  get  a  few  hours* 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  XII 

NEXT  day  was  one  of  the  rare,  blistering-hot  days 
with  a  furnace  wind  that  roared  over  the  wheat- 
fields.  The  sky  was  steely  and  the  sun  like  copper.  It 
was  a  clay  which  would  bring  the  wheat  to  a  head. 

At  breakfast  Jerry  reported  that  fresh  auto  tracks  had 
been  made  on  the  road  during  the  night;  and  that  dust 
and  wheat  all  around  the  great  field  showed  a  fresh 
tramping. 

Kurt  believed  a  deliberate  and  particular  attempt  had 
been  made  to  insure  the  destruction  of  the  Dorn  wheat- 
field.  And  he  ordered  all  hands  out  to  search  for  the 
dangerous  little  cakes  of  phosphorus. 

It  was  difficult  to  find  them.  The  wheat  was  almost  as 
high  as  a  man's  head  and  very  thick.  To  force  a  way 
through  it  without  tramping  it  down  took  care  and  time. 
Besides,  the  soil  was  soft,  and  the  agents  who  had  per 
petrated  this  vile  scheme  had  perfectly  matched  the 
color.  Kurt  almost  stepped  on  one  of  the  cakes  before  he 
saw  it.  His  men  were  very  slow  in  finding  any.  But 
Kurt's  father  seemed  to  walk  fatally  right  to  them,  for 
in  a  short  hundred  yards  he  found  three.  They  caused  a 
profound  change  in  this  gloomy  man.  Not  a  word  did 
he  utter,  but  he  became  animated  by  a  tremendous 
energy. 

The  search  was  discouraging.  It  was  like  hunting  for 
dynamite  bombs  that  might  explode  at  any  moment. 
All  Kurt's  dread  of  calamity  returned  fourfold.  The 
intense  heat  of  the  day,  that  would  ripen  the  wheat  to 
bursting,  would  likewise  sooner  or  later  ignite  the  cakes 
of  phosphorus.  And  when  Jerry  found  a  cake  far  inside 
the  field,  away  from  the  road,  showing  that  powerful 
.had  been  the  arm  that  had  thrown  it  there,  and  how  im- 

136 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

possible  it  would  be  to  make  a  thorough  search,  Kurt 
almost  succumbed  to  discouragement.  Still,  he  kept 
up  a  frenzied  hunting  and  inspired  the  laborers  to  do 
likewise. 

About  ten  o'clock  an  excited  shout  from  Bill  drew 
Kurt's  attention,  and  he  ran  along  the  edge  of  the  field. 
Bill  was  sweaty  and  black,  yet  through  it  all  Kurt  believed 
he  saw  the  man  was  pale.  He  pointed  with  shaking  hand 
toward  Olsen's  hill. 

Kurt  vibrated  to  a  shock.  He  saw  a  long  circular  yel 
low  column  rising  from  the  hill,  slanting  away  on  the 
strong  wind. 

"Dust!"  he  cried,  aghast. 

"Smoke!'"'  replied  Bill,  hoarsely. 

The  catastrophe  had  fallen.  Olsen's  wheat  was  burn 
ing.  Kurt  experienced  a  profound  sensation  of  sadness. 
What  a  pity!  The  burning  of  wheat — the  destruction 
of  bread — when  part  of  the  world  was  starving!  Tears 
dimmed  his  eyes  as  he  watched  the  swelling  column  of 
smoke. 

Bill  was  cursing,  and  Kurt  gathered  that  the  farm 
hand  was  predicting  fires  all  around.  This  was  inevitable. 
But  it  meant  no  great  loss  for  most  of  the  wheat-growers 
whose  yield  had  failed.  For  Kurt  and  his  father,  if  fire 
got  a  hold  in  their  wheat,  it  meant  ruin.  Kurt's  sadness 
was  burned  out  by  a  slow  and  growing  rage. 

"Bill,  go  hitch  up  to  the  big  mower,"  ordered  Kurt. 
"We'll  have  to  cut  all  around  our  field.  Bring  drinking- 
water  and  whatever  you  can  lay  a  hand  on  ...  anything 
to  fight  fire!" 

Bill  ran  thumping  away  over  the  clods.  Then  it  hap 
pened  that  Kurt  looked  toward  his  father.  The  old  man 
was  standing  with  his  arms  aloft,  his  face  turned  toward 
the  burning  wheat,  and  he  made  a  tragic  figure  that  wrung 
Kurt's  heart. 

Jerry  came  running  up.  "Fire!  Fire!  Olsen's  burn- 
in'!  Look!  By  all  thet's  dirty,  them  I.  W.  W.'s  hev 

137 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

done  it!  ...  Kurt,  we're  in  fer  hell!  Thet  wind's 
blowin'  straight  this  way." 

"Jerry,  well  fight  till  we  drop,"  replied  Kurt.  "Tell 
the  men  and  father  to  keep  on  searching  for  phosphorus 
cakes.  .  .  .  Jerry,  you  keep  to  the  high  ground.  Watch 
for  fires  starting  on  our  land.  If  you  see  one  yell  for  us 
and  make  for  it.  Wheat  burns  slow  till  it  gets  started. 
We  can  put  out  fires  if  we're  quick." 

"Kurt,  there  ain't  no  chance  on  earth  fer  us!"  yelled 
Jerry,  pale  with  anger.  His  big  red  hands  worked. 
"If  fire  starts  we've  got  to  hev  a  lot  of  men.  .  .  .  By 
Gawd!  if  I  ain't  mad!" 

"Don't  quit,  Jerry,"  said  Kurt,  fiercely.  "You  never 
can  tell.  It  looks  hopeless.  But  we'll  never  give  up. 
Hustle  now!" 

Jerry  shuffled  off  as  old  Dorn  came  haltingly,  as  if 
stunned,  toward  Kurt.  But  Kurt  did  not  want  to  face 
his  father  at  that  moment.  He  needed  to  fight  to  keep 
up  his  own  courage. 

"Never  mind  that!"  yelled  Kurt,  pointing  at  Olsen's 
hill.  "Keep  looking  for  those  damned  pieces  of  phos 
phorus!" 

With  that  Kurt  dove  into  the  wheat,  and,  sweeping 
wide  his  arms  to  make  a  passage,  he  strode  on,  his  eyes 
bent  piercingly  upon  the  ground  close  about  him.  He 
did  not  penetrate  deeper  into  the  wheat  from  the  road 
than  the  distance  he  estimated  a  strong  arm  could  send  a 
stone.  Almost  at  once  his  keen  sight  was  rewarded. 
He  found  a  cake  of  phosphorus  half  buried  in  the  soil. 
It  was  dry,  hard,  and  hot  either  from  the  sun  or  its  own 
generating  power.  That  inspired  Kurt.  He  hurried  on. 
Long  practice  enabled  him  to  slip  through  the  wheat  as  a 
barefoot  country  boy  could  run  through  the  corn-fields. 
And  his  passion  gave  him  the  eyes  of  a  hunting  hawk 
sweeping  down  over  the  grass.  To  and  fro  he  passed 
within  the  limits  he  had  marked,  oblivious  to  time  and 
heat  and  effort.  And  covering  that  part  of  the  wheat- 
is* 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

field  bordering  the  road  he  collected  twenty-seven  cakes 
of  phosphorus,  the  last  few  of  which  were  so  hot  they 
burnt  his  hands. 

Then  he  had  to  rest.  He  appeared  as  wet  as  if  he  had 
been  plunged  into  water;  his  skin  burned,  his  eyes  pained, 
his  breast  heaved.  Panting  and  spent,  he  lay  along  the 
edge  of  the  wheat,  with  closed  eyelids  and  lax  muscles. 

When  he  recovered  he  rose  and  went  back  along  the 
road.  The  last  quarter  of  the  immense  wheat-field  lay 
upon  a  slope  of  a  hill,  and  Kurt  had  to  mount  this  before 
he  could  see  the  valley.  From  the  summit  he  saw  a 
sight  that  caused  him  to  utter  a  loud  exclamation.  Many 
columns  of  smoke  were  lifting  from  the  valley,  and  before 
him  the  sky  was  darkened.  Olsen's  hill  was  as  if  under  a 
cloud.  No  flames  showed  anywhere,  but  in  places  the 
line  of  smoke  appeared  to  be  approaching. 

"It's  a  thousand  to  one  against  us,"  he  said,  bitterly, 
and  looked  at  his  watch.  He  was  amazed  to  see  that 
three  hours  had  passed  since  he  had  given  orders  to  the 
men.  He  hurried  back  to  the  house.  No  one  was  there 
except  the  old  sen/ant,  who  was  wringing  her  hands  and 
crying  that  the  house  would  burn.  Throwing  the  cakes 
of  phosphorus  into  a  watering-trough,  Kurt  ran  into  the 
kitchen,  snatched  a  few  biscuits,  and  then  made  for  the 
fields,  eating  as  he  went. 

He  hurried  down  a  lane  that  bordered  the  big  wheat- 
field.  On  this  side  was  fallow  ground  for  half  the  length 
of  the  section,  and  the  other  half  was  ripe  barley,  dry  as 
tinder,  and  beyond  that,  in  line  with  the  burning  fields, 
a  quarter-section  of  blasted  wheat.  The  men  were 
there.  Kurt  saw  at  once  that  other  men  with  horses  and 
machines  were  also  there.  Then  he  recognized  Olsen 
and  two  other  of  his  neighbors.  As  he  ran  up  he  was 
equally  astounded  and  out  of  breath,  so  that  he  could 
not  speak.  Old  Dorn  sat  with  gray  head  bowed  on  his 
hands. 

"Hello!"  shouted  Olsen.  His  grimy  face  broke  into  a 
10  139 


TEE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

hard  smile.  "Fires  all  over !  Wheat's  burnin'  like  prairie 
grass !  Them  chips  of  phosphorus  are  sure  from  hell !  .  .  . 
We've  come  over  to  help." 

"You — did!    You  left — your  fields!"  gasped  Kurt. 

"Sure.  They're  not  much  to  leave.  And  we're  goir/ 
to  save  this  section  of  yours  or  bust  tryin' !  .  .  .  I  sent 
my  son  in  his  car,  all  over,  to  hurry  men  here  with  horses, 
machines,  wagons." 

Kurt  was  overcome.  He  could  only  wring  Olsen's 
hand.  Here  was  an  answer  to  one  of  his  brooding, 
gloomy  queries.  Something  would  be  gained,  even  if  the 
wheat  was  lost.  Kurt  had  scarcely  any  hope  left. 

"What's  to  be  done?"  he  panted,  hoarsely.  In  this 
extremity  Olsen  seemed  a  tower  of  strength.  This 
sturdy  farmer  was  of  Anderson's  breed,  even  if  he  was  a 
foreigner.  And  he  had  fought  fires  before. 

"  If  we  have  time  we'll  mow  a  line  all  around  your  wheat 
replied  Olsen. 

"Reckon  we  won't  have  time,"  interposed  Jerry,  point 
ing  to  a  smoke  far  down  in  the  corner  of  the  stunted  wheat. 
"There's  a  fire  startin'." 

"They'll  break  out  all  over,"  said  Olsen,  and  he  waved 
a  couple  of  his  men  away.  One  had  a  scythe  and  the  other 
a  long  pole  with  a  wet  burlap  bag  tied  on  one  end.  They 
hurried  toward  the  little  cloud  of  smoke. 

"I  found  a  lot  of  cakes  over  along  the  road,"  declared 
Kurt,  with  a  grim  surety  that  he  had  done  that  well. 

"They've  surrounded  your  wheat,"  returned  Olsen. 
"But  if  enough  men  get  here  we'll  save  the  whole  sec 
tion.  .  .  .  Lucky  you've  got  two  wells  an'  that  water- 
tank.  We'll  need  all  the  water  we  can  get.  Keep  a 
man  pumpin'.  Fetch  all  the  bags  an'  brooms  an'  scythes. 
I'll  post  lookouts  along  this  lane  to  watch  for  fires  breakin' 
out  in  the  big  field.  When  they  do  we've  got  to  run  an* 
cut  an'  beat  them  out.  ...  It  won't  be  long  till  most  of 
this  section  is  surrounded  by  fire." 

Thin  clouds  of  smoke  were  then  blowing  across  the 

1 40 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

fields  and  the  wind  that  carried  them  was  laden  with  an 
odor  of  burning  wheat.  To  Kurt  it  seemed  to  be  the  f  r  - 
grance  of  baking  bread. 

"How'd  it  be  to  begin  harvestin'?"  queried  Jerry. 
"Thet  wheat's  ripe." 

"No  combines  should  be  risked  in  there  until  we're 
sure  the  danger's  past,"  replied  Olsen.  "There!  I 
see  more  of  our  neighbors  comin'  down  the  road.  We're 
goin'  to  beat  the  I.  W.  W." 

That  galvanized  Kurt  into  action  and  he  found  himself 
dragging  Jerry  back  to  the  barns.  They  hitched  a  team 
to  a  heavy  wagon,  in  record  time,  and  then  began  to  load 
with  whatever  was  available  for  fighting  fire.  They  loaded 
a  barrel,  and  with  huge  buckets  filled  it  with  water. 
Leaving  Jerry  to  drive,  Kurt  rushed  back  to  the  fields. 
During  his  short  absence  more  men,  with  horses  and  ma 
chines,  had  arrived;  fire  had  broken  out  in  the  stunted 
wheat,  and  also,  nearer  at  hand,  in  the  barley.  Kurt 
saw  his  father  laboring  like  a  giant.  Olsen  was  taking 
charge,  directing  the  men.  The  sky  was  obscured  now, 
and  all  the  west  was  thick  with  yellow  smoke.  The  south 
slopes  and  valley  floor  were  clouding.  Only  in  the  east, 
over  the  hill,  did  the  air  appear  clear.  Back  of  Kurt, 
down  across  the  barley  and  wheat  on  the  Dorn  land,  a 
line  of  fire  was  creeping  over  the  hill.  This  was  on  the 
property  adjoining  Olsen's.  Gremniger,  the  owner,  had 
abandoned  his  own  fields.  At  the  moment  he  v/as  driv 
ing  a  mower  along  the  edge  of  the  barley,  cutting  a  nine- 
foot  path.  Men  behind  him  were  stacking  the  sheaves. 
The  wind  was  as  hot  as  if  from  a  blast-furnace;  the  air 
was  thick  and  oppressive;  the  light  of  day  was  growing 
dim. 

Kurt,  mounted  on  the  seat  of  one  of  the  combine  thresh 
ers,  surveyed  with  rapid  and  anxious  gaze  all  the  points 
around  him,  and  it  lingered  over  the  magnificent  sweep  of 
golden  wheat.  The  wheat  bowed  in  waves  before  the 
wind,  and  the  silken  rustle,  heard  above  the  confusion  of 

141 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

yelling  men,  was  like  a  voice  whispering  to  Kurt.  Some- 
1'rw  his  dread  lessened  then  and  other  emotions  pre 
dominated.  He  saw  more  and  more  farmers  arrive,  in 
cars,  in  wagons,  with  engines  and  threshers,  until  the 
lane  was  lined  with  them  and  men  were  hurrying  every 
where. 

Suddenly  Kurt  espied  a  slender  column  of  smoke  rising 
above  the  wheat  out  in  front  of  him  toward  the  highway. 
This  was  the  first  sign  of  fire  in  the  great  section  that  so 
many  farmers  had  come  to  protect.  Yelling  for  help, 
he  leaped  off  the  seat  and  ran  with  all  his  might  toward 
the  spot.  Breasting  that  thick  wheat  was  almost  as 
hard  as  breasting  waves.  Jerry  came  yelling  after  him, 
brandishing  a  crude  beater;  and  both  of  them  reached  the 
fire  at  once.  It  was  a  small  circle,  burning  slowly.  Madly 
Kurt  rushed  in  to  tear  and  stamp  as  if  the  little  hissing 
flames  were  serpents.  He  burned  his  hands  through 
his  gloves  and  his  feet  through  his  boots.  Jerry  beat  hard, 
accompanying  his  blows  with  profane  speech  plainly 
indicating  that  he  felt  he  was  at  work  on  the  I.  W.  W. 
In  short  order  they  put  out  this  little  fire.  Returning 
to  his  post,  Kurt  watched  until  he  was  called  to  lend  a 
hand  down  in  the  stunted  wheat. 

Fire  had  crossed  and  had  gotten  a  hold  on  Dorn's 
lower  field.  Here  the  wheat  was  blasted  and  so  burned 
all  the  more  fiercely.  Horses  and  mowers  had  to  be  taken 
away  to  the  intervening  barley-field.  A  weird,  smoky, 
and  ruddy  darkness  enveloped  the  scene.  Dim  red 
fire,  in  lines  and  dots  and  curves,  appeared  on  three  sides, 
growing  larger  and  longer,  meeting  in  some  places,  criss 
crossed  by  black  figures  of  threshing  men  belaboring  the 
flames.  Kurt  came  across  his  father  working  like  a  mad 
man.  Kurt  warned  him  not  to  overexert  himself,  and 
the  father  never  heard.  Now  and  then  his  stentorian 
yell  added  to  the  medley  of  cries  and  shouts  and  blows, 
and  the  roar  of  the  wind  fanning  the  flames. 

Kurt  was  put  to  beating  fire  in  the  cut  wheat.  He 

142 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

stood  with  flames  licking  at  his  boots.  It  was  astonishing 
how  tenacious  the  fire  appeared,  how  it  crept  along, 
eating  up  the  mowed  wheat.  All  the  men  that  could  be 
spared  there  were  unable  to  check  it  and  keep  it  out  of 
the  standing  grain.  When  it  reached  this  line  it  lifted  a 
blaze,  flamed  and  roared,  and  burned  like  wildfire  in 
grass.  The  men  were  driven  back,  threshing  and  beating, 
all  to  no  avail.  Kurt  fell  into  despair.  There  was  no 
hope.  It  seemed  like  an  inferno. 

Flaring  high,  the  light  showed  the  black,  violently 
agitated  forms  of  the  fighters,  and  the  clouds  of  yellow 
smoke,  coalescing  and  drifting,  changing  to  dark  and 
soaring  high. 

Olsen  had  sent  three  mowers  abreast  down  the  whole 
length  of  the  barley-field  before  the  fire  reached  that  line. 
It  was  a  wise  move,  and  if  anything  could  do  so  it  would 
save  the  day.  The  leaping  flame,  thin  and  high,  and  a 
mile  long,  curled  down  the  last  of  the  standing  wheat  and 
caught  the  fallen  barley.  But  here  its  speed  was  checked. 
It  had  to  lick  a  way  along  the  ground. 

In  desperation,  in  unabated  fury,  the  little  army  of 
farmers  and  laborers,  with  no  thought  of  personal  gain, 
with  what  seemed  to  Kurt  a  wonderful  and  noble  spirit, 
attacked  this  encroaching  line  of  fire  like  men  whose  homes 
and  lives  and  ideals  had  been  threatened  with  destruction. 
Kurt's  mind  worked  as  swiftly  as  his  tireless  hands.  This 
indeed  was  being  in  a  front  line  of  battle.  The  scene 
was  weird,  dark,  fitful,  at  times  impressive  and  again 
unreal.  These  neighbors  of  his,  many  of  them  aliens,  some 
of  them  Germans,  when  put  to  this  vital  test,  were  prov 
ing  themselves.  They  had  shown  little  liking  for  the 
Dorns,  but  here  was  love  of  wheat,  and  so,  in  some  way, 
loyalty  to  the  government  that  needed  it.  Here  was  the 
answer  of  the  Northwest  to  the  I.  W.  W.  No  doubt  if 
the  perpetrators  of  that  phosphorus  trick  could  have  been 
laid  hold  of  then,  blood  would  have  been  shed.  Kurt 
sensed  in  the  fierce  energy,  in  the  dark,  grimy  faces,  shin- 

143 


THE  DESERT  OF  W PI  EAT 

ing  and  wet  under  the  light,  in  the  hoarse  yell  and  an* 
swering  shout,  a  nameless  force  that  was  finding  itself 
and  centering  on  one  common  cause. 

His  old  father  toiled  as  ten  men.  That  burly  giant 
pushed  ever  in  the  lead,  and  his  hoarse  call  and  strenuous 
action  told  of  more  than  a  mercenary  rage  to  save  his 
wheat. 

Fire  never  got  across  that  swath  of  cut  barley.  It 
was  beaten  out  as  if  by  a  thousand  men.  Shadow  and 
gloom  enveloped  the  fighters  as  they  rested  where  their 
last  strokes  had  fallen.  Over  the  hills  faint  reflection  of 
dying  flames  lit  up  the  dark  clouds  of  smoke.  The  battle 
seemed  won. 

Then  came  the  thrilling  cry:  "Fire!     Fire!" 

One  of  the  outposts  came  running  out  of  the  dark. 

"Fire!  the  other  side!     Fire!"  rang  out  Olsen's  yell. 

Kurt  ran  with  the  gang  pell-mell  through  the  dark,  up 
the  barley  slope,  to  see  a  long  red  line,  a  high  red  flare, 
and  lifting  clouds  of  ruddy  smoke.  Fire  in  the  big 
wheat-field!  The  sight  inflamed  him,  carried  him  te- 
yond  his  powers,  and  all  he  knew  was  that  he  became  the 
center  of  a  dark  and  whirling  melee  encircled  by  living 
flames  that  leaped  only  to  be  beaten  down.  Whether  that 
threshing  chaos  of  fire  and  smoke  and  wheat  was  short 
or  long  was  beyond  him  to  tell  but  the  fire  was  extin 
guished  to  the  last  spark. 

Walking  back  with  the  weary  crowd,  Kurt  felt  a  clearer 
breeze  upon  his  face.  Smoke  was  not  flying  so  thickly. 
Over  the  western  hill,  through  a  rift  in  the  clouds,  peeped 
a  star.  The  only  other  light  he  saw  twinkled  far  down  the 
lane.  It  was  that  of  a  lantern.  Dark  forms  barred  it 
now  and  then.  Slowly  Kurt  recovered  his  breath.  The 
men  were  talking  and  tired  voices  rang  with  assurance 
that  the  fire  was  beaten. 

Some  one  called  Kurt.  The  voice  was  Jerry's.  It 
seemed  hoarse  and  strained.  Kurt  could  see  the  lean 
form  of  his  man,  standing  in  the  light  of  the  lantern.  A 

144 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

small  dark  group  of  men,  silent  and  somehow  inpressive, 
stood  off  a  little  in  the  shadow. 

"Here  I  am,  Jerry,"  called  Kurt,  stepping  forward. 
Just  then  Olsen  joined  Jerry. 

"Boy,  we've  beat  the  I.  W.  W.'s,  but— but— •"  he 
began,  and  broke  off  huskily. 

"What's  the  matter?"  queried  Kurt,  and  a  cold  chill 
shot  over  him. 

Jerry  plucked  at  his  sleeve. 

"Your  old  man — your  dad — he's  overworked  hisself," 
whispered  Jerry.  "It's  tough.  .  .  .  Nobody  could  stop 
him." 

Kurt  felt  that  the  fulfilment  of  his  icy,  sickening  dread 
had  come.  Jerry's  dark  face,  even  in  the  uncertain  light, 
was  tragic. 

"Boy,  his  heart  went  back  on  him — he's  dead!'"'  said 
Olsen,  solemnly. 

Kurt  pushed  the  kind  hands  aside.  A  few  steps  brought 
him  to  where,  under  the  light  of  the  lantern,  lay  his  father, 
pale  and  still,  with  a  strange  softening  of  the  iron  cast  of 
intolerance. 

' '  Dead ! ' '  whispered  Kurt,  in  awe  and  horror.  ' '  Father  I 
Oh,  he's  gone! — without  a  word — " 

Again  Jerry  plucked  at  Kurt's  sleeve. 

"I  was  with  him,"  said  Jerry.  "I  heard  him  fall  an* 
groan.  ...  I  had  the  light.  I  bent  over,  lifted  his 
head.  .  .  .  An'  he  said,  speaking  English,  'Tell  my  son — 
I  was  wrong!'  .  .  .  Then  he  died.  An'  thet  was  all." 

Kurt  staggered  away  from  the  whispering,  sympathetic 
foreman,  out  into  the  darkness,  where  he  lifted  his  face 
in  the  thankfulness  of  a  breaking  heart. 

It  had,  indeed,  taken  the  approach  of  death  to  change  his 
hard  old  father.  "Oh,  he  meant— that  if  he  had  his  life 
to  live  over  again — he  would  be  different!"  whispered 
Kurt.  That  was  the  one  great  word  needed  to  reconcile 
Kurt  to  his  father. 

The  night  had  grown  still,  except  for  the  murmuring  of 

145 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

the  men.  Smoke  veiled  the  horizon.  Kurt  felt  an  in 
tense  and  terrible  loneliness.  He  was  indeed  alone  in 
the  world.  A  hard,  tight  contraction  of  throat  choked 
back  a  sob.  If  only  he  could  have  had  a  word  with  his 
father!  But  no  grief,  nothing  could  detract  from  the 
splendid  truth  of  his  father's  last  message.  In  the  black 
hours  soon  to  come  Kurt  would  have  that  to  sustain  him. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  bright  sun  of  morning  disclosed  that  wide, 
rolling  region  of  the  Bend  to  be  a  dreary,  blackened 
waste  surrounding  one  great  wheat-field,  rich  and  mellow 
and  golden. 

Kurt  Dorn's  neighbor,  Olsen,  in  his  kind  and  matter- 
of-fact  way,  making  obligation  seem  slight,  took  charge 
of  Kurt's  affairs,  and  made  the  necessary  and  difficult 
decisions.  Nothing  must  delay  the  harvesting  and  trans 
porting  of  the  wheat.  The  women  folk  arranged  for  the 
burial  of  old  Chris  Dorn. 

Kurt  sat  and  moved  about  in  a  gloomy  kind  of  trance 
for  a  day  and  a  half,  until  his  father  was  laid  to  rest 
beside  his  mother,  in  the  little  graveyard  on  the  windy 
hill.  After  that  his  mind  slowly  cleared.  He  kept  to 
himself  the  remainder  of  that  day,  avoiding  the  crowd  of 
harvesters  camping  in  the  yard  and  adjacent  field;  and 
at  sunset  he  went  to  a  lonely  spot  on  the  verge  of  the 
valley,  where  with  sad  eyes  he  watched  the  last  rays  of 
sunlight  fade  over  the  blackened  hills.  All  these  hours 
had  seemed  consecrated  to  his  father's  memory,  to  remem 
bered  acts  of  kindness  and  of  love,  of  the  relation  that  had 
gone  and  would  never  be  again.  Reproach  and  remorse 
had  abided  with  him  until  that  sunset  hour,  when  the 
load  eased  off  his  heart. 

Next  morning  he  went  out  to  the  wheat-field. 

What  a  wonderful  harvesting  scene  greeted  Kurt  Dorn ! 
Never  had  its  like  been  seen  in  the  Northwest,  nor  perhaps 
in  any  other  place.  A  huge  pall  of  dust,  chaff,  and  smoke 
hung  over  the  vast  wheat-field,  and  the  air  seemed  charged 
with  a  roar.  The  glaring  gold  of  the  wheat-field  appeared 
to  be  crisscrossed  everywhere  with  bobbing  black  streaks 

147 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

of  horses — bays,  blacks,  whites,  and  reds ;  by  big,  moving 
painted  machines,  lifting  arms  and  puffing  straw;  by 
immense  wagons  piled  high  with  sheaves  of  wheat,  lumber 
ing  down  to  the  smoking  engines  and  the  threshers  that 
sent  long  streams  of  dust  and  chaff  over  the  lifting  straw- 
stacks;  by  wagons  following  the  combines  to  pick  up  the 
plump  brown  sacks  of  wheat;  and  by  a  string  of  empty 
wagons  coming  in  from  the  road. 

Olsen  was  rushing  thirty  combine  threshers,  three 
engine  threshing-machines,  forty  wagon-teams,  and  over 
a  hundred  men  well  known  to  him.  There  was  a  guard 
around  the  field.  This  unprecedented  harvest  had  at 
tracted  many  spectators  from  the  little  towns.  They 
had  come  in  cars  and  on  horseback  and  on  foot.  Olsen 
trusted  no  man  on  that  field  except  those  he  knew. 

The  wonderful  wheat-field  was  cut  into  a  thousand 
squares  and  angles  and  lanes  and  curves.  The  big  whir 
ring  combines  passed  one  another,  stopped  and  waited 
and  turned  out  of  the  way,  leaving  everywhere  little 
patches  and  cubes  of  standing  wheat,  that  soon  fell 
before  the  onslaught  of  the  smaller  combines.  This 
scene  had  no  regularity.  It  was  one  of  confusion;  of 
awkward  halts,  delays^  hurries;  of  accident.  The  wind 
blew  clouds  of  dust  and  chafif,  alternately  clearing  one 
space  to  cloud  another.  And  a  strange  roar  added 
the  last  heroic  touch  to  this  heroic  field.  It  was  indeed 
the  roar  of  battle — men  and  horses  governing  the  action 
of  machinery,  and  all  fighting  time.  For  in  delay  was 
peril  to  the  wheat. 

Once  Kurt  ran  across  the  tireless  and  implacable  Olsen. 
He  seemed  a  man  of  dust  and  sweat  and  fury. 

"She's  half  cut  an'  over  twenty  thousand  bushels  gone 
to  the  railroad!"  he  exclaimed.  "An'  we're  speedin'up." 

"Olsen,  I  don't  get  what's  going  on."  replied  Kurt. 
"All  this  is  like  a  dream." 

"Wake  up.  You'll  be  out  of  debt  an'  a  rich  man  in 
three  days,"  added  Olsen,  and  went  his  way. 

148 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

In  the  afternoon  Kurt  set  out  to  work  as  he  had  neve? 
worked  in  his  life.  There  was  need  of  his  strong  hands 
in  many  places,  but  he  could  not  choose  any  one  labor  and 
stick  by  it  for  long.  He  wanted  to  do  all.  It  was  as  if 
this  was  not  a  real  and  wonderful  harvest  of  his  father's 
greatest  wheat  yield,  but  something  that  embodied  all 
years,  all  harvests,  his  father's  death,  the  lifting  of  the 
old,  hard  debt,  the  days  when  he  had  trod  the  fields 
barefoot,  and  this  day  when,  strangely  enough,  all  seemed 
over  for  him.  Peace  dwelt  with  him,  yet  no  hope.  Be 
hind  his  calm  he  could  have  found  the  old  dread,  had  he 
cared  to  look  deeply.  He  loved  these  heroic  workers 
of  the  fields.  It  had  been  given  to  him — a  great  task — 
to  be  the  means  of  creating  a  test  for  them,  his  neighbors 
under  a  ban  of  suspicion;  and  now  he  could  swear  they 
were  as  true  as  the  gold  of  the  waving  wheat.  More 
than  a  harvest  was  this  most  strenuous  and  colorful  of 
all  times  ever  known  in  the  Bend;  it  had  a  significance 
that  uplifted  him.  It  was  American. 

First  Kurt  began  to  load  bags  of  wheat,  as  they  fell 
from  the  whirring  combines,  into  the  wagons.  For  his 
powerful  arms  a  full  bag,  containing  two  bushels,  was 
like  a  toy  for  a  child.  With  a  lift  and  a  heave  he  threw 
^  bag  into  a  wagon.  They  were  everywhere,  these  brown 
bags,  dotting  the  stubble  field,  appearing  as  if  by  magic 
in  the  wake  of  the  machines.  They  rolled  off  the  plat 
forms.  This  toil,  because  it  was  hard  and  heavy,  held 
Kurt  for  an  hour,  but  it  could  not  satisfy  his  enormous 
hunger  to  make  that  whole  harvest  his  own.  He  passed 
to  pitching  sheaves  of  wheat  and  then  to  driving  in  the 
wagons.  From  that  he  progressed  to  a  seat  on  one  of  the 
immense  combines,  where  he  drove  twenty-four  horses. 
No  driver  there  was  any  surer  than  Kurt  of  his  aim  with 
the  little  stones  he  threw  to  spur  a  lagging  horse.  Kurt 
had  felt  this  when,  as  a  boy,  he  had  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  try  his  hand;  he  liked  the  shifty  cloud  of  fragrant  chaff, 
now  and  then  blinding  and  choking  him;  and  he  liked  the 

149 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

steady,  rhythmic  tramp  of  hoofs  and  the  roaring  whir 
of  the  great  complicated  machine.  It  fascinated  him  to 
see  the  wide  swath  of  nodding  wheat  tremble  and  sway 
and  fall,  and  go  sliding  up  into  the  inside  of  that  grind 
ing  maw,  and  come  out,  straw  and  dust  and  chaff,  and  a 
slender  stream  of  gold  filling  the  bags. 

This  day  Kurt  Dorn  was  gripped  by  the  unknown. 
Some  far-off  instinct  of  future  drove  him,  set  his  spiritual 
need,  and  made  him  register  with  his  senses  all  that  was 
so  beautiful  and  good  and  heroic  in  the  scene  about  him. 

Strangely,  now  and  then  a  thought  of  Lenore  Anderson 
entered  his  mind  and  made  sudden  havoc.  It  tended 
to  retard  action.  He  trembled  and  thrilled  with  a  reali 
zation  that  every  hour  brought  closer  the  meeting  he  could 
not  avoid.  And  he  discovered  that  it  was  whenever 
this  memory  recurred  that  he  had  to  leave  off  his  pres 
ent  task  and  rush  to  another.  Only  thus  could  he  for 
get  her. 

The  late  afternoon  found  him  feeding  sheaves  of  wheat 
to  one  of  the  steam-threshers.  He  stood  high  upon  a 
platform  and  pitched  sheaves  from  the  wagons  upon  the 
sliding  track  of  the  ponderous,  rattling  threshing-machine. 
The  engine  stood  off  fifty  yards  or  more,  connected  by 
an  endless  driving-belt  to  the  thresher.  Here  indeed 
were  whistle  and  roar  and  whir,  and  the  shout  of  laborers, 
and  the  smell  of  smoke,  sweat,  dust,  and  wheat.  Kurt 
had  arms  of  steel.  If  they  tired  he  never  knew  it.  He 
toiled,  and  he  watched  the  long  spout  of  chaff  and  straw 
as  it  streamed  from  the  thresher  to  lift,  magically,  a 
glistening,  ever-growing  stack.  And  he  felt,  as  a  last 
and  cumulative  change,  his  physical  effort,  and  the 
physical  adjuncts  of  the  scene,  pass  into  something 
spiritual,  into  his  heart  and  his  memory. 

The  end  of  that  harvest-time  came  as  a  surprise  to  Kurt. 
Obsessed  with  his  own  emotions,  he  had  actually  helped 
to  cut  the  wheat  and  harvest  it ;  he  had  seen  it  go  swath 
by  swath,  he  had  watched  the  huge  wagons  lumber  away 

150 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

and  the  huge  straw-stacks  rise  without  realizing  that  the 
hours  of  this  wonderful  harvest  werenumbered. 

Sight  of  Olsen  coming  in  from  across  the  field,  and  the 
sudden  cessation  of  roar  and  action,  made  Kurt  aware 
of  the  end.  It  seemed  a  calamity.  But  Olsen  was  smil 
ing  through  his  dust-caked  face.  About  him  were  re 
laxation,  an  air  of  finality,  and  a  subtle  pride. 

"We're  through,"  he  said.  "She  tallies  thirty-eight 
thousand,  seven  hundred  an'  forty-one  bushels.  It's 
too  bad  the  old  man  couldn't  live  to  hear  that." 

Olsen  gripped  Kurt's  hand  and  vrrung  it. 

"Boy,  I  reckon  you  ought  to  take  that  a  little  cheer- 
fuller,  ' '  he  went  on.  * '  But — well,  it's  been  a  hard  time.  . . . 
The  men  are  leavin'  now.  In  two  hours  the  last  wagons 
will  unload  at  the  railroad.  The  wheat  will  all  be  in  the 
warehouse.  An'  our  worry's  ended." 

"I — I  hope  so,"  responded  Kurt.  He  seemed  over 
come  with  the  passionate  longing  to  show  his  gratitude 
to  Olsen.  But  the  words  would  net  flow.  "I — I  don't 
know  how  to  thank  you.  ...  All  my  life — " 

"We  beat  the  I.  W.  W.,"  interposed  the  farmer,  heartily. 
"An'  now  what  '11  you  do,  Dorn?" 

"Why,  I'll  hustle  to  Kilo,  get  my  money,  send  you  a 
check  for  yourself  and  men,  pay  off  the  debt  to  Ander 
son,  and  then — " 

But  Kurt  did  not  conclude  his  speech.  His  last  words 
were  thought-provoking. 

"It's  turned  out  well,"  said  Olsen,  with  satisfaction, 
and,  shaking  hands  again  with  Kurt,  he  strode  back  to 
his  horses. 

At  last  the  wide,  sloping  field  was  bare,  except  for  the 
huge  straw-stacks.  A  bright  procession  lumbered  down 
the  road,  led  by  the  long  strings  of  wagons  filled  with 
brown  bags.  A  strange  silence  had  settled  down  over 
the  farm.  The  wheat  was  gone.  That  waving  stretch 
of  gold  had  fallen  to  the  thresher  and  the  grain  had  been 
hauled  away.  The  neighbors  had  gone,  leaving  Kurt 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

rich  in  bushels  of  wheat,  and  richer  for  the  hearty  fare- 
wells  and  the  grips  of  horny  hands.    Kurt's  heart  was  full. 

It  was  evening.  Kurt  had  finished  his  supper.  Al 
ready  he  had  packed  a  few  things  to  take  with  him  on 
the  morrow.  He  went  out  to  the  front  of  the  house. 
Stars  were  blinking.  There  was  a  low  hum  of  insects 
from  the  fields.  He  missed  the  soft  silken  rustle  of  the 
wheat.  And  now  it  seemed  he  could  sit  there  in  the 
quiet  darkness,  in  that  spot  which  had  been  made  sweet 
by  Lenore  Anderson's  presence,  and  think  of  her,  the  meet 
ing  soon  to  come.  The  feeling  abiding  with  him  then 
must  have  been  happiness,  because  he  was  not  used  to 
it.  Without  deserving  anything,  he  had  asked  a  great 
deal  of  fate,  and,  lo!  it  had  been  given  him.  All  was 
well  that  ended  well.  He  realized  now  the  terrible 
depths  of  despair  into  which  he  had  allowed  himself  to 
be  plunged.  He  had  been  weak,  wrong,  selfish.  There 
was  something  that  guided  events. 

He  needed  to  teach  himself  all  this,  with  strong  and 
repeated  force,  so  that  when  he  went  to  give  Lenore 
Anderson  the  opportunity  to  express  her  gratitude,  to 
see  her  sweet  face  again,  and  to  meet  the  strange,  warm 
glance  of  her  blue  eyes,  so  mysterious  and  somehow 
mocking,  he  could  be  a  man  of  restraint,  of  pride,  like 
any  American,  like  any  other  college  man  she  knew. 
This  was  no  time  for  a  man  to  leave  a  girl  bearing  a  burden 
of  his  unsolicited  love,  haunted,  perhaps,  by  a  generous 
reproach  that  she  might  have  been  a  little  to  blame. 
He  had  told  her  the  truth,  and  so  far  he  had  been  dignified. 
Now  let  him  bid  her  good-by,  leaving  no  sorrow  for  her, 
and,  once  out  of  her  impelling  presence,  let  come  what 
might  come.  He  could  love  her  then ;  he  could  dare  what 
he  had  never  dared;  he  could  surrender  himself  to  the 
furious,  insistent  sweetness  of  a  passion  that  was  sheer 
bliss  in  its  expression.  He  could  imagine  kisses  on  the 
red  lips  that  were  not  for  him. 

152 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

A  husky  shout  from  somewhere  in  the  rear  of  the  house 
diverted  Kurt's  attention.  He  listened.  It  came  again. 
His  name!  It  seemed  a  strange  call  from  out  of  the 
troubled  past  that  had  just  ended.  He  hurried  through 
the  house  to  the  kitchen.  The  woman  stood  holding  a 
lamp,  staring  at  Jerry. 

Jerry  appeared  to  have  sunk  against  the  wall.  His 
face  was  pallid,  with  drops  of  sweat  standing  out,  with 
distorted,  quivering  lower  jaw.  He  could  not  look  at 
Kurt.  He  could  not  speak.  With  shaking  hand  he 
pointed  toward  the  back  of  the  house. 

Filled  with  nameless  dread,  Kurt  rushed  out.  He  saw 
nothing  unusual,  heard  nothing.  Rapidly  he  walked  out 
through  the  yard,  and  suddenly  he  saw  a  glow  in  the 
sky  above  the  barns.  Then  he  ran,  so  that  he  could 
get  an  unobstructed  view  of  the  valley. 

The  instant  he  obtained  this  he  halted  as  if  turned  to 
stone.  The  valley  was  a  place  of  yellow  light.  He  stared. 
With  the  wheat-fields  all  burned,  what  was  the  meaning 
of  such  a  big  light?  That  broad  flare  had  a  center,  low 
down  on  the  valley  floor.  As  he  gazed  a  monstrous 
flame  leaped  up,  lighting  colossal  pillars  of  smoke  that 
swirled  upward,  and  showing  plainer  than  in  day  the 
big  warehouse  and  lines  of  freight-cars  at  the  railroad 
station,  eight  miles  distant. 

"My  God!"  gasped  Kurt.  "The  warehouse— my 
wheat — on  fire!" 

Clear  and  unmistakable  was  the  horrible  truth.  Kurt 
heard  the  roar  of  the  sinister  flames.  Transfixed,  he 
stood  there,  at  first  hardly  able  to  see  and  to  compre 
hend.  For  miles  the  valley  was  as  light  as  at  noonday. 
An  awful  beauty  attended  the  scene.  How  lurid  and 
sinister  the  red  heart  of  that  fire!  How  weird  and  hellish 
and  impressive  of  destruction  those  black,  mountain- 
high  clouds  of  smoke !  He  saw  the  freight-cars  disappear 
under  this  fierce  blazing  and  smoking  pall.  He  watched 
for  what  seemed  endless  moments.  He  saw  the  changes 

153 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

of  that  fire,  swift  and  terrible.  And  only  then  did  Kurt 
Dorn  awaken  to  the  full  sense  of  the  calamity. 

"All  that  work — Olsen's  sacrifice — and  the  farmers' — 
my  father's  death — all  for  nothing!"  whispered  Kurt. 
"They  only  waited — those  fiends — to  fire  the  warehouse 
and  the  cars!'* 

The  catastrophe  had  fallen.  The  wheat  was  burning. 
He  was  ruined.  His  wheatland  must  go  to  Anderson. 
Kurt  thought  first  and  most  poignantly  of  the  noble 
farmers  who  had  sacrificed  the  little  in  their  wheat- 
fields  to  save  the  much  in  his.  Never  could  he  repay 
them. 

Then  he  became  occupied  with  a  horrible  heat  that 
seemed  to  have  come  from  the  burning  warehouse  to  all 
his  pulses  and  veins  and  to  his  heart  and  his  soul. 

This  fiendish  work,  as  had  been  forecast,  was  the  work 
of  the  I.  W.  W.  Behind  it  was  Glidden  and  perhaps 
behind  him  was  the  grasping,  black  lust  of  German  might. 
Kurt's  loss  was  no  longer  abstract  or  problematical. 
It  was  a  loss  so  real  and  terrible  that  it  confounded  him. 
He  shook  and  gasped  and  reeled.  He  wrung  his  hands 
and  beat  his  breast  while  the  tumult  swayed  him,  the 
physical  hate  at  last  yielding  up  its  significance.  What, 
then,  was  his  great  loss?  He  could  not  tell.  The  thing 
was  mighty,  like  the  sense  of  terror  and  loneliness  in  the 
black  night.  Not  the  loss  for  his  farmer  neighbors,  so 
true  in  his  hour  of  trial!  Not  the  loss  of  his  father,  nor 
the  wheat,  nor  the  land,  nor  his  ruined  future!  But  it 
must  be  a  loss,  incalculable  and  insupportable,  to  his 
soul.  His  great  ordeal  had  been  the  need,  a  terrible  and 
incomprehensible  need,  to  kill  something  intangible  in 
himself.  He  had  meant  to  do  it.  And  now  the  need  was 
shifted,  subject  to  a  baser  instinct.  If  there  was  German 
blood  in  him,  poisoning  the  very  wells  of  his  heart,  he 
could  have  spilled  it,  and  so,  whether  living  or  dead, 
have  repudiated  the  taint.  That  was  now  clear  in  his 
consciousness,  But  a  baser  spark  had  ignited  all  the 

154 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

primitive  passion  of  the  forebears  he  felt  burning  and 
driving  within  him.  He  felt  no  noble  fire.  He  longed  to 
live,  to  have  a  hundredfold  his  strength  and  fury,  to  be 
gifted  with  a  genius  for  time  and  place  and  bloody  deed, 
to  have  the  war-gods  set  him  a  thousand  opportunities, 
to  beat  with  iron  mace  and  cut  with  sharp  bayonet  and 
rend  with  hard  hand — to  kill  and  kill  and  kill  the  hideous 
thing  that  was  German. 
11 


CHAPTER   XIV 

KURT  rushed  back  to  the  house.  Encountering 
Jerry,  he  ordered  him  to  run  and  saddle  a  couple 
of  horses.  Then  Kurt  got  his  revolver  and  a  box  of 
shells,  and,  throwing  on  his  coat,  he  hurried  to  the  barn. 
Jerry  was  leading  out  the  horses.  It  took  but  short  work 
to  saddle  them.  Jerry  was  excited  and  talkative.  He 
asked  Kurt  many  questions,  which  excited  few  replies. 

When  Kurt  threw  himself  into  the  saddle  Jerry  yelled, 
" Which  way?" 

"Down  the  trail!"  replied  Kurt,  and  was  off. 

"Aw,  well  break  our  necks!"  came  Jerry's  yell  after 
him. 

Kurt  had  no  fear  of  the  dark.  He  knew  that  trail  al 
most  as  well  by  night  as  by  day.  His  horse  was  a  mettle 
some  colt  that  had  not  been  worked  during  the  harvest, 
and  he  plunged  down  the  dim,  winding  trail  as  if,  indeed, 
to  verify  Jerry's  fears.  Presently  the  thin,  pale  line  that 
was  the  trail  disappeared  on  the  burned  wheat-ground. 
Here  Kurt  was  at  fault  as  to  direction,  but  he  did  not 
slacken  the  pace  for  that.  He  heard  Jerry  pounding  along 
in  the  rear,  trying  to  catch  up.  The  way  the  colt  jumped 
ditches  and  washes  and  other  obstructions  proved  his 
keen  sight.  Kurt  let  him  go.  And  then  the  ride  became 
both  perilous  and  thrilling. 

Kurt  could  not  see  anything  on  the  blackened  earth. 
But  he  knew  from  the  contour  of  the  hills  just  about  where 
to  expect  to  reach  the  fence  and  the  road.  And  he  did 
not  pull  the  horse  too  soon.  When  he  found  the  gate  he 
waited  for  Jerry,  who  could  be  heard  calling  from  the 
darkness.  Kurt  answered  him. 

"Here's  the  gate!"  yelled  Kurt,  as  Jerry  came  gallop 
ing  up,  "Good  road  all  the  way  now!" 

156 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Lickity-cut  then!"  shouted  Jerry,  to  whom  the  pace 
had  evidently  communicated  enthusiasm. 

The  ride  then  became  a  race,  with  Kurt  drawing  ahead. 
Kurt  could  see  the  road,  a  broad,  pale  belt,  dividing  the 
blackness  on  either  side;  and  he  urged  the  colt  to  a  run. 
The  wind  cut  short  Kurt's  breath,  beat  at  his  ears,  and 
roared  about  them.  Closer  and  closer  drew  the  red  flare 
of  the  dying  fire,  casting  long  rays  of  light  into  Kurt's 
eyes. 

The  colt  was  almost  run  out  when  he  entered  the  circle 
of  reddish  flare.  Kurt  saw  the  glowing  ruins  of  the 
elevators  and  a  long,  fiery  line  of  box-cars  burned  to  the 
wheels.  Men  were  running  and  shouting  round  in  front 
of  the  little  railroad  station,  and  several  were  on  the 
roof  with  brooms  and  buckets.  The  freight-house  had 
burned,  and  evidently  the  station  itself  had  been  on  fire. 
Across  the  wide  street  of  the  little  village  the  roof  of  a 
cottage  was  burning.  Men  were  on  top  of  it,  beating  the 
shingles.  Hoarse  yells  greeted  Kurt  as  he  leaped  out  of 
the  saddle.  He  heard  screams  of  frightened  women.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  burned  box-cars  a  long,  thin  column 
of  sparks  rose  straight  upward.  Over  the  ruins  of  the 
elevators  hung  a  pall  of  heavy  smoke.  Just  then  Jerry 
came  galloping  up,  his  lean  face  red  in  the  glow. 

"Thet  you,  Kurt?  Say,  the  sons  of  guns  are  burnin' 
down  the  town."  He  leaped  off.  "Lemme  have  your 
bridle.  I'll  tie  the  hosses  up.  Find  out  what  we  can  do." 

Kurt  ran  here  and  there,  possessed  by  impotent  rage. 
The  wheat  was  gone!  That  fact  gave  him  a  hollow, 
sickening  pang.  He  met  farmers  he  knew.  They  all 
threw  up  their  hands  at  sight  of  him.  Not  one  could 
find  a  voice.  Finally  he  met  Olsen.  The  little  wheat 
farmer  was  white  with  passion.  He  carried  a  gun. 

' '  Hello,  Dorn !  Ain't  this  hell  ?  They  got  your  wheat !" 
he  said,  hoarsely. 

"Olsen!  How'd  it  happen?  Wasn't  anybody  set  to 
guard  the  elevators?" 

157 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Yes.  But  the  I.  W.  W.'s  drove  all  the  guards  off 
but  Grimm,  an'  they  beat  him  up  bad.  Nobody  had 
nerve  enough  to  shoot." 

"  Olsen,  if  I  run  into  that  Glidden  I'll  kill  him,"  declared 
Kurt. 

"So  will  I.  ...  But,  Dorn,  they're  a  hard  crowd. 
They're  over  there  on  the  side,  watchin'  the  fire.  A 
gang  of  them!  Soon  as  I  can  get  the  men  together  we'll 
drive  them  out  of  town.  There'll  be  a  fight,  if  I  don't 
miss  my  guess." 

"Hurry  the  men!  Have  all  of  them  get  their  guns! 
Come  on!" 

"Not  yet,  Dorn.  We're  fightin'  fire  yet.  You  an* 
Jerry  help  all  you  can." 

Indeed,  it  appeared  there  was  danger  of  more  than  one 
cottage  burning.  The  exceedingly  dry  weather  of  the 
past  weeks  had  made  shingles  like  tinder,  and  wher 
ever  a  glowing  spark  fell  on  them  there  straightway  was 
a  smoldering  fire.  Water,  a  scarce  necessity  in  that 
region,  had  been  used  until  all  wells  and  pumps  became 
dry.  It  was  fortunate  that  most  of  the  roofs  of  the  little 
village  had  been  constructed  of  galvanized  iron.  Beat 
ing  out  blazes  and  glowing  embers  with  brooms  was  not 
effective  enough.  When  it  appeared  that  the  one  cot 
tage  nearest  the  rain  of  sparks  was  sure  to  go,  Kurt 
thought  of  the  railroad  water-tank  below  the  station. 
He  led  a  number  of  men  with  buckets  to  the  tank,  and 
they  soon  drowned  out  the  smoldering  places. 

Meanwhile  the  blazes  from  the  box-cars  died  out,  leav 
ing  only  the  dull  glow  from  the  red  heap  that  had 
once  been  the  elevators.  However,  this  gave  forth  light 
enough  for  any  one  to  be  seen  a  few  rods  distant.  Sparks 
had  ceased  to  fall,  and  from  that  source  no  further  danger 
need  be  apprehended.  Olsen  had  been  going  from  man 
to  man,  sending  those  who  were  not  armed  home  for 
guns.  So  it  came  about  that  half  an  hour  after  Kurt's 
arrival  a  score  of  fanners,  villagers,  and  a  few  rail- 

158 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

readers  were  collected  in  a  group,  listening  to  the  pale- 
faced  Olsen. 

"Men,  there's  only  a  few  of  us,  an'  there's  hundreds, 
niebbe,  in  thet  I.  W.  W.  gang,  but  we've  got  to  drive  them 
off,"  he  said,  doggedly.  "There's  no  tellin'  what  they'll 
do  if  we  let  them  hang  around  any  longer.  They  know 
we're  weak  in  numbers.  We've  got  to  do  some  shootin* 
to  scare  them  away." 

Kurt  seconded  Olsen  in  ringing  voice. 

' '  They've  threatened  your  homes, ' '  he  said.  ' '  They've 
burned  my  wheat — ruined  me.  They  were  the  death  of 
my  father.  .  .  .  These  are  facts  I'm  telling  you.  We 
can't  wait  for  law  or  for  militia.  We've  got  to  meet 
this  I.  W.  W.  invasion.  They  have  taken  advantage  of 
the  war  situation.  They're  backed  by  German  agents. 
It's  now  a  question  of  our  property.  We've  got  to  fight !" 

The  crowd  made  noisy  and  determined  response. 
Most  of  them  had  small  weapons;  a  few  had  shot-guns 
or  rifles. 

"Come  on,  men,"  called  Olsen.  "I'll  do  the  talkin'. 
An'  if  I  say  shoot,  why,  you  shoot!" 

It  was  necessary  to  go  around  the  long  line  of  box 
cars.  Oisen  led  the  way,  with  Kurt  just  back  of  him. 
The  men  spoke  but  little  and  in  whispers.  At  the  left 
end  of  the  line  the  darkness  was  thick  enough  to  make 
objects  indistinct. 

Once  around  the  corner,  Kurt  plainly  descried  a  big 
dark  crowd  of  men  whose  faces  showed  red  in  the  glow  of 
the  huge  pile  of  embers  which  was  all  that  remained  of 
the  elevators.  They  did  not  see  Olsen 's  men. 

"Hold  on,"  whispered  Olsen.  "If  we  get  in  a  fight 
here  we'll  be  in  a  bad  place.  We've  nothin'  to  hide  be 
hind.  Let's  go  off — more  to  the  left — an'  come  up  be 
hind  those  freight-cars  on  the  switches.  That  '11  give  us 
cover  an'  we'll  have  the  I.  W.  W.'s  in  the  light." 

So  he  led  off  to  the  left,  keeping  in  the  shadow,  and 
climbed  between  several  lines  of  freight-cars,  all  empty, 

159 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

and  finally  came  out  behind  the  I.  W.  W.'s.  Olsen  led  to 
within  fifty  yards  of  them,  and  was  halted  by  some  observ 
ant  member  of  the  gang  who  sat  with  the  others  on  top 
of  a  flat-car. 

This  man's  yell  stilled  the  coarse  talk  and  laughter  of 
the  gang. 

"What's  that?"  shouted  a  cold,  clear  voice  with  author 
ity  in  it. 

Kurt  thought  he  recognized  the  voice,  and  it  caused  a 
bursting,  savage  sensation  in  his  blood. 

"Here's  a  bunch  of  farmers  with  guns!"  yelled  the  man 
from  the  flat-car. 

Olsen  halted  his  force  near  one  of  the  detached  lines  of 
box-cars,  which  he  probably  meant  to  take  advantage  of 
in  case  of  a  fight. 

"Hey,  you  I.  W.  W.'s!"  he  shouted,  with  all  his  might. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"There's  no  I.  W.  W.'s  here,"  replied  the  authoritative 
voice. 

Kurt  was  sure  now  that  he  recognized  Glidden's  voice. 
Excitement  and  anger  then  gave  place  to  deadly  rage. 

"Who  are  you?"  yelled  Olsen. 

"We're  tramps  watchin'  the  fire,"  came  the  reply. 

"You  set  that  fire!" 

"No,  we  didn't." 

Kurt  motioned  Olsen  to  be  silent,  as  with  lifting  breast 
he  took  an  involuntary  step  forward. 

"Glidden,  I  know  you!"  he  shouted,  in  hard,  quick 
tones.  "I'm  Kurt  Dorn.  I've  met  you.  I  know  your 
voice.  .  .  .  Take  your  gang — get  out  of  here — or  we'll 
kill  you!" 

This  pregnant  speech  caused  a  blank  dead  silence. 
Then  came  a  white  flash,  a  sharp  report.  Kurt  heard 
the  thud  of  a  bullet  striking  some  one  near  him.  The 
man  cried  out,  but  did  not  fall. 

"Spread  out  an'  hide!"  ordered  Olsen.  "An'  shoot  fer 
keeps!" 

160 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

The  little  crowd  broke  and  melted  into  the  shadows 
behind  and  under  the  box-cars.  Kurt  crawled  under  a 
car  and  between  the  wheels,  from  which  vantage-point 
he  looked  out.  Glidden's  gang  were  there  in  the  red 
glow,  most  of  them  now  standing.  The  sentry  who  had 
given  the  alarm  still  sat  on  top  of  the  flat-car,  swinging 
his  legs.  His  companions,  however,  had  jumped  down. 
Kurt  heard  men  of  his  own  party  crawling  and  whisper 
ing  behind  him,  and  he  saw  dim,  dark,  sprawling  forms 
under  the  far  end  of  the  car. 

"Boss,  the  hayseeds  have  run  off,"  called  the  man  from 
the  flat  car. 

Laughter  and  jeers  greeted  this  sally. 

Kurt  concluded  it  was  about  time  to  begin  proceedings. 
Resting  his  revolver  on  the  side  of  the  wheel  behind 
which  he  lay,  he  took  steady  aim  at  the  sentry,  holding 
low.  Kurt  was  not  a  good  shot  with  a  revolver  and  the 
distance  appeared  to  exceed  fifty  yards.  But  as  luck 
would  have  it,  when  he  pulled  trigger  the  sentry  let 
out  a  loud  bawl  of  terror  and  pain,  and  fell  off  the  car  to 
the  ground.  Flopping  and  crawling  like  a  crippled  chicken, 
he  got  out  of  sight  below. 

Kurt's  shot  was  a  starter  for  Olsen's  men.  Four  or 
five  of  the  shot-guns  boomed  at  once;  then  the  second 
barrels  were  discharged,  along  with  a  sharper  cracking 
of  small  arms.  Pandemonium  broke  loose  in  Glidden's 
gang.  No  doubt,  at  least,  of  the  effectiveness  of  the  shot 
guns  !  A  medley  of  strange,  sharp,  enraged,  and  anguished 
cries  burst  upon  the  air,  a  prelude  to  a  wild  stampede. 
In  a  few  seconds  that  lighted  spot  where  the  I.  W.  W. 
had  grouped  was  vacant,  and  everywhere  were  fleeing 
forms,  some  swift,  others  slow.  So  far  as  Kurt  could  see, 
no  one  had  been  fatally  injured.  But  many  had  been 
hurt,  and  that  fact  augured  well  for  Olsen's  force. 

Presently  a  shot  came  from  some  hidden  enemy.  It 
thudded  into  the  wood  of  the  car  over  Kurt.  Some  one 
on  his  side  answered  it,  and  a  heavy  bullet,  striking  iron, 

161 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

whined  away  into  the  darkness.  Then  followed  flash 
here  and  flash  there,  with  accompanying  reports  and 
whistles  of  lead.  From  behind  and  under  and  on  top 
of  cars  opened  up  a  fire  that  proved  how  well  armed  these 
so-called  laborers  were.  Their  volley  completely  drowned 
the  desultory  firing  of  Olsen's  squad. 

Kurt  began  to  wish  for  one  of  the  shot-guns.  It  was 
this  kind  of  weapon  that  saved  Olsen's  followers.  There 
were  a  hundred  chances  to  one  of  missing  an  I.  W.  W. 
with  a  single  bullet,  while  a  shot-gun,  aimed  fairly  well, 
was  generally  productive  of  results.  Kurt  stopped  wast 
ing  his  cartridges.  Some  one  was  hurt  behind  his  car 
and  he  crawled  out  to  see.  A  villager  named  Schmidt 
had  been  wounded  in  the  leg,  not  seriously,  but  bad  enough 
to  disable  him.  He  had  been  using  a  double-barreled 
breech-loading  shot-gun,  and  he  wore  a  vest  with  rows 
of  shells  in  the  pockets  across  the  front.  Kurt  borrowed 
gun  and  ammunition;  and  with  these  he  hurried  back  to 
his  covert,  grimly  sure  of  himself.  At  thought  of  Glidden 
he  became  hot  all  over,  and  this  heat  rather  grew  with 
the  excitement  of  battle. 

With  the  heavy  fowling-piece  loaded,  Kurt  peeped 
forth  from  behind  his  protecting  wheel  and  watched  keenly 
for  flashes  or  moving  dark  figures.  The  I.  W.  W.  had 
begun  to  reserve  their  fire,  to  shift  their  positions,  and  to 
spread  out,  judging  from  a  wider  range  of  the  reports. 
It  looked  as  if  they  meant  to  try  and  surround  Olsen's 
band.  It  was  extraordinary — the  assurance  and  deadly 
intent  of  this  riffraff  gang  of  tramp  labor-agitators.  In 
preceding  years  a  crowd  of  I.  W.  W.  men  had  been  nothing 
to  worry  a  rancher.  Vastly  different  it  seemed  now. 
They  acted  as  if  they  had  the  great  war  back  of  them. 

Kurt  crawled  out  of  his  hiding-place,  and  stole  from  car 
to  car,  in  search  of  Olsen.  At  last  he  found  the  rancher, 
in  company  with  several  men,  peering  from  behind  a 
car.  One  of  his  companions  was  sitting  down  and  trying 
to  wrap  something  round  his  foot. 

162 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Olsen,  they 're  spreading  out  to  surround  us,"  whispered 
Kurt. 

"That's  what  Bill  here  just  said,"  replied  Olsen, 
nervously.  "If  this  keeps  up  we'll  be  in  a  tight  place. 
What  11  we  do,  Dorn?" 

"We  mustn't  break  and  run,  of  all  things,"  said  Kurt. 
"They'd  burn  the  village.  Tell  our  men  to  save  their 
shells.  ...  If  I  only  could  get  some  cracks  at  a  bunch 
of  them  together — with  this  big  shot-gun!" 

"Say,  we've  been  watchin'  that  car — the  half -size 
one,  there — next  the  high  box-car,"  whispered  Olsen. 

"It's  full  of  them.  Sometimes  we  see  a  dozen  shots 
come  from  it,  all  at  once." 

"Olsen,  I've  an  idea,"  returned  Kurt,  excitedly.  "You 
fellows  keep  shooting — attract  their  attention.  I'll  slip 
below,  climb  on  top  of  a  box-car,  and  get  a  rake-off  at 
that  bunch." 

"It's  risky,  Dorn,"  said  Olsen,  with  hesitation.  "But 
if  you  could  get  in  a  few  tellin'  shots — start  that  gang  on 
the  run!" 

"I'll  try  it,"  rejoined  Kurt,  and  forthwith  stole  off 
back  toward  the  shadow.  It  struck  him  that  there  was 
more  light  than  when  the  attack  began.  The  fire  had 
increased,  or  perhaps  the  I.  W.  W.  had  started  another; 
at  any  rate,  the  light  was  growing  stronger,  and  like 
wise  the  danger  greater.  As  he  crossed  an  open  space  a 
bullet  whizzed  by  him,  and  then  another  zipped  by  to 
strike  up  the  gravel  ahead.  These  were  not  random  shots. 
Some  one  was  aiming  at  him.  How  strange  and  rage- 
provoking  to  be  shot  at  deliberately!  What  a  remark 
able  experience  for  a  young  wheat  farmer !  Raising  wheat 
in  the  great  Northwest  had  assumed  responsibilities. 
He  had  to  run,  and  he  was  the  more  furious  because  of 
that.  Another  bullet,  flying  wide,  hummed  to  his  left 
before  he  gained  the  shelter  of  the  farthest  line  of  freight- 
cars.  Here  he  hid  and  watched.  The  firing  appeared 
to  be  all  behind  him,  and,  thus  encouraged,  he  stole 

163 


THE  DESERT  OF  W  PI  EAT 

along  to  the  end  of  the  line  of  cars,  and  around.  A 
bright  blaze  greeted  his  gaze.  An  isolated  car  was  on 
fire.  Kurt  peered  forth  to  make  sure  of  his  bearings,  and 
at  length  found  the  high  derrick  by  which  he  had  marked 
the  box-car  that  he  intended  to  climb. 

He  could  see  plainly,  and  stole  up  to  his  objective  point, 
with  little  risk  to  himself  until  he  climbed  upon  the  box 
car.  He  crouched  low,  almost  on  hands  and  knees,  and 
finally  gained  the  long  shadow  of  a  shed  between  the 
tracks.  Then  he  ran  past  the  derrick  to  the  dark  side 
of  the  car.  He  could  now  plainly  see  the  revolver  flashes 
and  could  hear  the  thud  and  spang  of  their  bullets  strik 
ing.  Drawing  a  deep  breath,  Kurt  climbed  up  the  iron 
ladder  on  the  dark  side  of  the  car. 

He  had  the  same  sensation  that  possessed  him  when  he 
was  crawling  to  get  a  pot-shot  at  a  flock  of  wild  geese. 
Only  this  was  mightily  more  exciting.  He  did  not  for 
get  the  risk.  He  lay  flat  and  crawled  little  by  little. 
Every  moment  he  expected  to  be  discovered.  Olsen  had 
evidently  called  more  of  his  men  to  his  side,  for  they  cer 
tainly  were  shooting  diligently.  Kurt  heard  a  contin 
uous  return  fire  from  the  car  he  was  risking  so  much  to 
get  a  shot  at.  At  length  he  was  within  a  yard  of  the  end 
of  the  car — as  far  as  he  needed  to  go.  He  rested  a  moment. 
He  was  laboring  for  breath,  sweating  freely,  on  fire  with 
thrills. 

His  plan  was  to  raise  himself  on  one  knee  and  fire  as 
many  double  shots  as  possible.  Presently  he  lifted  his 
head  to  locate  the  car.  It  was  half  in  the  bright  light, 
half  in  the  shadow,  lengthwise  toward  him,  about  sixty 
or  seventy  yards  distant,  and  full  of  men.  He  dropped 
his  head,  tingling  all  over.  It  was  a  disappointment  that 
the  car  stood  so  far  away.  With  fine  shot  he  could  not 
seriously  injure  any  of  the  I.  W.  W.  contingent,  but  he 
was  grimly  sure  of  the  fright  and  hurt  he  could  inflict. 
In  his  quick  glance  he  had  seen  flashes  of  their  guns,  and 
many  red  faces,  and  dark,  huddled  forms. 

164 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Kurt  took  four  shells  and  set  them,  end  up,  on  the  roof 
of  the  car  close  to  him.  Then,  cocking  the  gun,  he  cau 
tiously  raised  himself  to  one  knee.  He  discharged  both 
barrels  at  once.  What  a  boom  and  what  a  terrified  out 
burst  of  yells!  Swiftly  he  broke  the  gun,  reloaded,  fired 
as  before,  and  then  again.  The  last  two  shots  were  fired 
at  the  men  piling  frantically  over  the  side  of  the  car,  yell 
ing  with  fear.  Kurt  had  heard  the  swishing  pattering 
impact  of  those  swarms  of  small  shot.  The  I.  W.  W.  gang 
ran  pell-mell  down  the  open  track,  away  from  Kurt  and 
toward  the  light.  As  he  reloaded  the  gun  he  saw  men 
running  from  all  points  to  join  the  gang.  With  an  old 
blunderbuss  of  a  shot-gun  he  had  routed  the  I.  W.  W. 
It  meant  relief  to  Olsen's  men;  but  Kurt  had  yet  no 
satisfaction  for  the  burning  of  his  wheat,  for  the  crue) 
shock  that  had  killed  his  father. 

"Come  on,  Olsen!"  he  yelled,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs, 
"They're  a  lot  of  cowards!" 

Then  in  his  wild  eagerness  he  leaped  off  the  car.  The 
long  jump  landed  him  jarringly,  but  he  did  not  fall  01 
lose  hold  of  the  gun.  Recovering  his  balance,  he  broke 
into  a  run.  Kurt  was  fast  on  his  feet.  Not  a  young 
man  of  his  neighborhood  nor  any  of  his  college-mates 
could  outfoot  him  in  a  race.  And  then  these  I.  W.  W. 
fellows  ran  like  stiff-legged  tramps,  long  unused  to  such 
mode  of  action.  And  some  of  them  were  limping  as  they 
ran.  Kurt  gained  upon  them.  When  he  got  within  range 
he  halted  short  and  freed  two  barrels.  A  howl  followed 
the  report.  Some  of  the  fleeing  ones  fell,  but  were  dragged 
up  and  on  by  companions.  Kurt  reloaded  and,  bounding 
forward  like  a  deer,  yelling  for  Olsen,  he  ran  until  he  was 
within  range,  then  stopped  to  shoot  again.  Thus  he 
continued  until  the  pursued  got  away  from  the  circle  of 
light.  Kurt  saw  the  gang  break  up,  some  running  one 
way  and  some  another.  There  were  sheds  and  cars  and 
piles  of  lumber  along  the  track,  affording  places  to  hide. 
Kurt  was  halted  by  the  discovery  that  he  had  no  more 

165 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

ammunition.  Panting,  he  stopped  short,  realizing  that 
he  had  snapped  an  empty  gun  at  men  either  too  tired  or 
too  furious  or  too  desperate  to  run  any  farther. 

"He's  out  of  shells!"  shouted  a  low,  hard  voice  that 
made  Kurt  leap.  He  welcomed  the  rush  of  dark  forms, 
and,  swinging  the  gun  round  his  head,  made  ready  to  brain 
the  first  antagonist  who  neared  him.  But  some  one  leaped 
upon  him  from  behind.  The  onslaught  carried  him  to 
his  knees.  Bounding  up,  he  broke  the  gun  stock  on  the 
head  of  his  assailant,  who  went  down  in  a  heap.  Kurt 
tried  to  pull  his  revolver.  It  became  impossible,  owing 
to  strong  arms  encircling  him.  Wrestling,  he  freed 
himself,  only  to  be  staggered  by  a  rush  of  several  men,  all 
pouncing  upon  him  at  once.  Kurt  went  down,  but,  once 
down,  he  heaved  so  powerfully  that  he  threw  off  the 
whole  crew.  Up  again,  like  a  cat,  he  began  to  fight. 
Big  and  strong  and  swift,  with  fists  like  a  blacksmith's, 
Kurt  bowled  over  this  assailant  and  that  one.  He  thought 
he  recognized  Glidden  in  a  man  who  kept  out  of  his  reach 
and  who  was  urging  on  the  others.  Kurt  lunged  at  him 
and  finally  got  his  hands  on  him.  That  was  fatal  for 
Kurt,  because  in  his  fury  he  forgot  Glidden's  comrades. 
In^one  second  his  big  hand  wrenched  a  yell  of  mortal 
pain  out  of  Glidden;  then  a  combined  attack  of  the  others 
rendered  Kurt  powerless.  A  blow  on  the  head  stunned 
him — made  all  dark, 


CHAPTER   XV 

IT  seemed  that  Kurt  did  not  altogether  lose  con-1 
sciousness,  for  he  had  vague  sensations  of  being 
dragged  along  the  ground.  Presently  the  darkness  cleared 
from  his  mind  and  he  opened  his  eyes.  He  lay  on  his 
back.  Looking  up,  he  saw  stars  through  the  thin,  broken 
clouds  of  smoke.  A  huge  pile  of  railroad  ties  loomed  up 
beside  him. 

He  tried  to  take  note  of  his  situation.  His  hands  were 
tied  in  front  of  him,  not  so  securely,  he  imagined,  that  he 
could  not  work  them  free.  His  legs  had  not  been  tied0; 
Both  his  head  and  shoulder,  on  the  left  side,  pained  him 
severely.  Upon  looking  around,  Kurt  presently  made  out 
the  dark  form  of  a  man.  He  appeared  rigid  with  attend 
tion,  but  that  evidently  had  no  relation  to  Kurt.  The 
man  was  listening  and  watching  for  his  comrades.  Kurt 
heard  no  voices  or  shots.  After  a  little  while,  howevery' 
he  thought  he  heard  distant  footsteps  on  the  graveU 
He  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  his  predicament.  If 
there  was  only  one  guard  over  him,  escape  did  not  seem 
difficult,  unless  that  guard  had  a  gun. 

"Hello,  you!"  he  called. 

"Hello,  yourself"  replied  the  man,  jerking  up  in  evident 
surprise. 

"  What's  your  name?"  inquired  Kurt,  amiably. 

"  Well,  it  ain't  J.  J.  Hill  or  Anderson,"  came  the  grufl 
response. 

Kurt  laughed.  "But  you  would  be  one  of  those  names 
if  you  could,  now  wouldn't  you?"  went  on  Kurt. 

"My  name  is  Dennis,"  gloomily  returned  the  man. 

"It  certainly  is.  That  is  the  name  of  all  I.  W.  W.'s/* 
said  Kurt. 

"Say,  are  you  the  fellow  who  had  the  shot-gun?" 

167 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

<CI  sure  am,"  replied  Kurt. 

"I  ought  to  knock  you  on  the  head." 

"Why?" 

" Because  I'll  have  to  eat  standing  up  for  a  month." 

"Yes?"  queried  Kurt. 

"The  seat  of  my  pants  must  have  made  a  good  target, 
for  you  sure  pasted  it  full  of  bird-shot." 

Kurt  smothered  a  laugh.  Then  he  felt  the  old  anger 
leap  up.  "  Didn't  you  burn  my  wheat  ? ' ' 

"Are  you  that  young  Dorn?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  replied  Kurt,  hotly. 

"Well,  I  didn't  burn  one  damn  straw  of  your  old  wheat." 

"You  didn't!  But  you're  with  these  men?  You're 
an  I.  W.  W.  You've  been  fighting  these  farmers  here." 

"If  you  want  to  know,  I'm  a  tramp,"  said  the  man, 
bitterly.  "Years  ago  I  was  a  prosperous  oil-producer  in 
Ohio.  I  had  a  fine  oil-field.  Along  comes  a  big  fellow, 
tries  to  buy  me  out,  and,  failing  that,  he  shot  off  dynamite 
charges  into  the  ground  next  my  oil-field.  .  .  .  Choked 
my  wells !  Ruined  me !  .  .  .  I  came  west — went  to  farm 
ing.  Along  comes  a  corporation,  steals  my  water  for 
irrigation — and  my  land  went  back  to  desert.  ...  So  I 
quit  working  and  trying  to  be  honest.  It  doesn't  pay. 
The  rich  men  are  getting  all  the  richer  at  the  expense  of  the 
poor.  So  now  I'm  a  tramp." 

"Friend,  that's  a  hard-luck  story,"  said  Kurt.  "It 
sure  makes  me  think.  .  .  .  But  I'll  tell  you  what — you 
don't  belong  to  this  I.  W.  W.  outfit,  even  if  you  are  a 
tramp." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  you're  American!    That's  why." 

' '  Weil,  I  know  I  am.  But  I  can  be  American  and  travel 
with  a  labor  union,  can't  I?" 

"No.  This  I.  W.  W.  is  no  labor  union.  It  never  was. 
Their  very  first  rule  is  to  abolish  capital.  They're  anar 
chists.  And  now  they're  backed  by  German  money. 
The  I.  W.  W.  is  an  enemy  to  America.  All  this  hampering 

168 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

of  railroads,  destruction  of  timber  and  wheat,  is  an  aid  to 
Germany  in  the  war.     The  United  States  is  at  war!     My 
God!  man,  can't  you  see  it's  your  own  country  that  must 
suffer  for  such  deals  as  this  wheat-burning  to-night?" 
"The  hell  you  say!"  ejaculated  the  man,  in  amaze. 
"This  Glidden  is  a  German  agent — perhaps  a  spy. 
He's  no  labor  leader.     What  does  he  care  for  the  interests 
of  such  men  as  you?" 

"Young  man,  if  you  don't  shut  up  you'll  give  me  & 
hankering  to  go  back  to  real  work." 

"I  hope  I  do.  Let  me  give  you  a  hunch.  Throw  down- 
this  I.  W.  W.  outfit.  Go  to  Ruxton  and  get  Anderson  of 
'Many  Waters'  ranch  to  give  you  a  job.  Tell  him  who- 
you  are  and  that  I  sent  you." 

"Anderson  of  'Many  Waters/  hey?  Well,  maybe  it 
'11  surprise  you  to  know  that  Glidden  is  operating  there, 
has  a  lot  of  men  there,  and  is  going  there  from  here." 

"No,  it  doesn't  surprise  me.  I  hope  he  does  go  there, 
For  if  he  does  he'll  get  killed." 

"Sssssh!"  whispered  the  guard.  "Here  comes  some  of 
the  gang." 

Kurt  heard  low  voices  and  soft  footfalls.  Some  dark 
forms  loomed  up. 

"Bradford,  has  he  corne  to  yet?"  queried  the  brutal 
voice  of  Glidden. 

"Nope,"  replied  the  guard.  "I  guess  he  had  a  hard 
knock.  He's  never  budded." 

"We've  got  to  beat  it  out  of  here,"  said  Glidden. 
"It's  long  after  midnight.  There's  a  freight-train  down 
the  track.  I  want  all  the  gang  to  board  it.  You  run 
along,  Bradford,  and  catch  up  with  the  others." 

"What  're  you  going  to  do  with  this  young  fellow?" 
queried  Bradford,  curiously. 

"That's  none  of  your  business,"  returned  Glidden. 
"Maybe  not.     But  I  reckon  I'll  ask,  anyhow.     You 
want  me  to  join  your  I.  W.  W.,  and  I'm  asking  questions. 
Labor  strikes— standing  up  for  your  rights— is  one  thing, 

169 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

and  burning  wheat  or  slugging  young  farmers  is  another. 
Are  you  going  to  let  this  Dorn  go?" 

Kurt  could  plainly  see  the  group  of  five  men,  Bradford 
standing  over  the  smaller  Glidden,  and  the  others  strung 
and  silent  in  the  intensity  of  the  moment. 

"I'll  cut  his  throat,"  hissed  Glidden. 

Bradford  lunged  heavily.  The  blow  he  struck  Glidden 
was  square  in  the  face.  Glidden  would  have  had  a  hard 
fall  but  for  the  obstruction  in  the  shape  of  his  comrades, 
upon  whom  he  was  knocked.  They  held  him  up.  Glidden 
sagged  inertly,  evidently  stunned  or  unconscious.  Brad 
ford  backed  guardedly  away  out  of  their  reach,  then, 
wheeling,  he  began  to  run  with  heavy,  plodding  strides. 

Glidden's  comrades  seemed  anxiously  holding  him  up, 
peering  at  him,  but  not  one  spoke.  Kurt  saw  his  oppor 
tunity.  With  one  strong  wrench  he  freed  his  hands, 
feeling  in  his  pocket  for  his  gun,  he  was  disturbed  to  find 
that  it  had  been  taken.  He  had  no  weapon.  But  he 
did  not  hesitate.  Bounding  up,  he  rushed  like  a  hurri 
cane  upon  the  unprepared  group.  He  saw  Glidden's 
pale  face  upheld  to  the  light  of  the  stars,  and  by  it  saw  that 
tjlidden  was  recovering.  With  all  his  might  Kurt  swung 
as  he  rushed,  and  the  blow  he  gave  the  I.  W.  W.  leader 
far  exceeded  Bradford's.  Glidden  was  lifted  so  power 
fully  against  one  of  his  men  that  they  both  fell.  Then 
Kurt,  striking  right  and  left,  beat  down  the  other  two, 
and,  leaping  over  them,  he  bounded  away  into  the  dark 
ness.  Shrill  piercing  yells  behind  him  lent  him  wings. 

But  he  ran  right  into  another  group  of  I.  W.  W.  men, 
dozens  in  number,  he  thought,  and  by  the  light  of  what 
appeared  to  be  a  fire  they  saw  him  as  quickly  as  he  saw 
them.  The  yells  behind  were  significant  enough.  Kurt 
had  to  turn  to  run  back,  and  he  had  to  run  the  gantlet 
of  the  men  he  had  assaulted.  They  promptly  began  to 
shoot  at  Kurt.  The  whistle  of  lead  was  uncomfortably 
close.  Never  had  he  run  so  fleetly.  When  he  flashed 
past  the  end  of  a  line  of  cars,  into  comparative  open,  he 

170 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

found  himself  in  the  light  of  a  new  fire.  This  was  a 
shed  perhaps  a  score  of  rods  or  less  from  the  station. 
Some  one  was  yelling  beyond  this,  and  Kurt  thought  he 
recognized  Jerry's  voice,  but  he  did  not  tarry  to  make 
sure.  Bullets  scattering  the  gravel  ahead  of  him  and 
singing  around  his  head,  and  hoarse  cries  behind,  with  a 
heavy-booted  tread  of  pursuers,  gave  Kurt  occasion  to 
hurry.  He  flew  across  the  freight-yard,  intending  to 
distance  his  pursuers,  then  circle  round  the  station  to  the 
village. 

Once  he  looked  back.  The  gang,  well  spread  out,  was 
not  far  behind  him,  just  coming  into  the  light  of  the  new 
fire.  No  one  in  it  could  ever  catch  him,  of  that  Kurt  was 
sure. 

Suddenly  a  powerful  puff  of  air,  like  a  blast  of  wind, 
seemed  to  lift  him.  At  the  same  instant  a  dazzling, 
blinding,  yellow  blaze  illuminated  the  whole  scene.  The 
solid  earth  seemed  to  rock  under  Kurt's  flying  feet,  and 
then  a  terrific  roar  appalled  him.  He  was  thrown  head 
long  through  the  air,  and  all  about  him  seemed  streaks 
and  rays  and  bursts  of  fire.  He  alighted  to  plow  through 
the  dirt  until  the  momentum  of  force  had  been  expended. 
Then  he  lay  prone,  gasping  and  choking,  almost  blind, 
but  sensitive  to  the  rain  of  gravel  and  debris,  trie  fearful 
cries  of  terrified  men,  taste  of  smoke  and  dust,  and  the 
rank  smell  of  exploded  gasolene. 

Kurt  got  up  to  grope  his  way  through  the  murky  dark 
ness.  He  could  escape  now.  If  that  explosion  had  not 
killed  his  pursuers  it  had  certainly  scared  them  off.  He 
heard  men  running  and  yelling  off  to  the  left.  A  rumble  of 
a  train  came  from  below  the  village.  Finally  Kurt  got 
clear  of  the  smoke,  to  find  that  he  had  wandered  off  into 
one  of  the  fields  opposite  the  station.  Here  he  halted  to 
rest  a  little  and  to  take  cognizance  of  his  condition.  It 
surprised  him  to  find  out  that  he  was  only  bruised, 
scratched,  and  sore,  He  had  expected  to  find  himself  full 
of  bullets. 

12  171 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Whew!  They  blew  up  the  gasolene-shed!"  he  solilo 
quized.  ''But  some  of  them  miscalculated,  for  if  I  don't 
lose  my  guess  there  was  a  bunch  of  I.  W.  W.  closer  to 
that  gasolene  than  I  was.  .  .  .  Some  adventure!  ...  I 
got  another  punch  at  Glidden.  I  felt  it  in  my  bones  that 
I'd  get  a  crack  at  him.  Oh,  for  another!  .  .  .  And  that 
Bradford!  He  did  make  me  think.  How  he  slugged 
Glidden!  Good!  Good!  There's  your  old  American 
spirit  coming  out." 

Kurt  sat  down  to  rest  and  to  listen.  He  found  he  needed 
a  rest.  The  only  sound  he  heard  was  the  rumbling  of  a 
train,  gradually  drawing  away.  A  heavy  smoke  rose 
from  the  freight-yard,  but  there  were  no  longer  any 
blazes  or  patches  of  red  fire.  Perhaps  the  explosion  had 
smothered  all  the  flames. 

It  had  been  a  rather  strenuous  evening,  he  reflected. 
A  good  deal  of  satisfaction  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  had 
severely  punished  some  of  the  I.  W.  W.  members,  if  he 
had  not  done  away  with  any  of  them. 

When  he  thought  of  Glidden,  however,  he  did  not  feel 
any  satisfaction.  His  fury  was  gone,  but  in  its  place  was 
a  strong  judgment  that  such  men  should  be  made  examples. 
He  certainly  did  not  want  to  run  across  Glidden  again,  be 
cause  if  he  did  he  would  have  blood  on.  his  hands. 

Kurt's  chance  meeting  with  the  man  Bradford  seemed 
far  the  most  interesting,  if  not  thrilling,  incident  of  the 
evening.  It  opened  up  a  new  point  of  view.  How  many 
of  the  men  of  that  motley  and  ill-governed  I.  W.  W.  had 
grievances  like  Bradford's?  Perhaps  there  were  many. 
Kurt  tried  to  remember  instances  when,  in  the  Northwest 
wheat  country,  laborers  and  farmers  had  been  cheated  or 
deceived  by  men  of  large  interests.  It  made  him  grave  to 
discover  that  he  could  recall  many  such  instances.  His 
own  father  had  long  nursed  a  grievance  against  Anderson. 
Neuman,  his  father's  friend,  had  a  hard  name.  And 
there  were  many  who  had  profited  by  the  misfortune  of 
others.  That,  after  all,  was  a  condition  of  life.  He  took 

172 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

it  for  granted,  then,  that  all  members  of  the  I.  W.  W.  were 
not  vicious  or  dishonest.  He  was  glad  to  have  this  proof. 
The  I.  W.  W.  had  been  organized  by  labor  agitators,  and 
they  were  the  ones  to  blame,  and  their  punishment  should 
be  severest.  Kurt  began  to  see  where  the  war,  cruel  as 
it  would  be,  was  going  to  be  of  immeasurable  benefit  to 
the  country. 

It  amazed  Kurt,  presently,  to  note  that  dawn  was  at 
hand.  He  waited  awhile  longer,  wanting  to  be  sure  not  to 
meet  any  lingering  members  of  the  I.  W.  W.  It  appeared, 
indeed,  that  they  had  all  gone. 

He  crossed  the  freight-yard.  A  black  ruin,  still  smolder 
ing,  lay  where  the  elevators  had  been.  That  wonderful 
wheat  yield  of  his  had  been  destroyed.  In  the  gray  dawn 
it  was  hard  to  realize.  He  felt  a  lump  in  his  throat. 
Several  tracks  were  littered  with  the  remains  of  burned 
freight-cars.  When  Kurt  reached  the  street  he  saw  men 
in  front  of  the  cottages.  Some  one  hailed  him,  and  then 
several  shouted.  They  met  him  half-way.  Jerry  and 
Olsen  were  in  the  party. 

"We  was  pretty  much  scared,"  said  Jerry,  and  his 
haggard  face  showed  his  anxiety. 

"Boy,  we  thought  the  I.  W.  W.  had  made  off  with  you," 
added  Olsen,  extending  his  hand. 

' '  Not  much !     Where  are  they  ? ' '  replied  Kurt . 

"Gone  on  a  freight-train.  When  Jerry  blew  up  the 
gasolene-shed  that  fixed  the  I.  W.  W." 

"Jerry,  did  you  do  that?"  queried  Kurt. 

"I  reckon." 

1 '  Well,  you  nearly  blew  me  off  the  map.  I  was  running, 
just  below  the  shed.  When  that  explosion  came  I  was 
lifted  and  thrown  a  mile.  Thought  I'd  never  light!" 

"So  far  as  we  can  tell,  nobody  was  killed,"  said  Olsen. 
"Some  of  our  fellows  have  got  bullet-holes  to  nurse.  But 
no  one  is  bad  hurt.  ' 

"That's  good.  I  guess  we  came  out  lucky,"  replied 
Kurt. 

173 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"You  must  have  had  some  fight,  runnin'  off  that  way 
after  the  I.  W.  W.'s  We  heard  you  shoo  tin'  an'  the  I.  W. 
W.'s  yellin'.  That  part  was  fun.  Tell  us  what  happened 
to  you." 

So  Kurt  had  to  narrate  his  experiences  from  the  time  he 
stole  off  with  the  big  shot-gun  until  his  friends  saw  him 
again.  It  made  rather  a  long  story,  which  manifestly 
was  of  exceeding  interest  to  the  villagers. 

" Dorn,"  said  one  of  the  men,  "you  an'  Jerry  saved  this 
here  village  from  bein'  burned." 

"We  all  had  a  share.  I'm  sure  glad  they're  gone. 
Now  what  damage  was  done?" 

It  turned  out  that  there  had  been  little  hurt  to  the 
property  of  the  villagers.  Some  freight-cars  full  of  bar 
ley,  loaded  and  billed  by  the  railroad  people,  had  been 
burned,  and  this  loss  of  grain  would  probably  be  paid 
for  by  the  company.  The  loss  of  wheat  would  fall  upon 
Kurt.  In  the  haste  of  that  great  harvest  and  its  trans 
portation  to  the  village  no  provision  had  been  made  for 
loss.  The  railroad  company  had  not  accepted  his  wheat 
for  transportation,  and  was  not  liable. 

"Olsen,  according  to  our  agreement  I  owe  you  fifteen 
thousand  dollars,"  said  Kurt. 

"Yes,  but  forget  it,"  replied  Olsen.  "You're  the  loser 
here." 

"Ill  pay  it,"  replied  Kurt. 

' '  But,  boy,  you're  ruined !' '  ejaculated  the  farmer.  ' '  You 
can't  pay  that  big  price  now.  An'  we  don't  expect  it." 

"Didn't  you  leave  your  burning  fields  to  come  help 
us  save  ours?"  queried  Kurt. 

"Sure.     But  there  wasn't  much  of  mine  to  burn." 

"And  so  did  many  of  the  other  men  who  came  to  help. 
I  tell  you,  Olsen,  that  means  a  great  deal  to  me.  I'll 
pay  my  debt  or — or — " 

"But  how  can  you?"  interrupted  Olsen,  reasonably. 
"Sometime,  when  you  raise  another  crop  like  this  year, 
then  you  could  pay." 

174 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"The  farm  will  bring  that  much  more  than  I  owe 
Anderson." 

"You  11  give  up  the  farm?"  exclaimed  Olsen. 

"Yes.     I'll  square  myself." 

"Dorn,  we  won't  take  that  money,"  said  the  farmer, 
deliberately. 

"You'll  have  to  take  it.  I'll  send  you  a  check  soon — 
perhaps  to-morrow." 

"Give  up  your  land!"  repeated  Olsen.  "Why,  that's 
unheard  of!  Land  in  your  family  so  many  years!  .  .  . 
What  will  you  do?" 

"Olsen,  I  waited  for  the  draft  just  on  account  of  my 
father.  If  it  had  not  been  for  him  I'd  have  enlisted. 
Anyway,  I'm  going  to  war." 

That  silenced  the  little  group  of  grimy-faced  men. 

"Jerry,  get  our  horses  and  well  ride  home,"  said 
Kurt. 

The  tall  foreman  strode  off.  Kurt  sensed  something 
poignant  in  the  feelings  of  the  men,  especially  Olsen. 
This  matter  of  the  I.  W.  W.  dealing  had  brought  Kurt 
and  his  neighbors  closer  together.  And  he  thought 
it  a  good  opportunity  for  a  few  words  about  the  United 
States  and  the  war  and  Germany.  So  he  launched  forth 
into  an  eloqtient  expression  of  some  of  his  convictions. 
He  was  still  talking  when  Jerry  returned  with  the  horses. 
At  length  he  broke  off,  rather  abruptly,  and,  saying 
good-by,  he  mounted. 

"Hold  on,  Kurt,"  called  Olsen,  and  left  the  group  to 
lay  a  hand  on  the  horse  and  to  speak  low.  "What  you 
said  struck  me  deep.  It  applies  pretty  hard  to  us  of  the 
Bend.  We've  always  been  farmers,  with  no  thought  of 
country.  An'  that's  because  we  left  our  native  country 
to  come  here.  I'm  not  German  an'  I've  never  been  for 
Germany.  But  many  of  my  neighbors  an*  friends  are 
Germans.  This  war  never  has  come  close  till  now.  I 
know  Germans  in  this  country.  They  have  left  their 
fatherland  an'  they  are  lost  to  that  fatherland!  ...  It 

175 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

may  take  some  time  to  stir  them  up,  to  make  them  see, 
but  the  day  will  come.  .  .  .  Take  my  word  for  it,  Dorn, 
the  German-Americans  of  the  Northwest,  when  it  comes 
to  a  pinch,  will  find  themselves  an'  be  true  to  the  country 
they  have  adopted," 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  sun  was  up,  broad  and  bright,  burning  over  the 
darkened  wheat-fields,  when  Kurt  and  Jerry  reached 
home.  Kurt  had  never  seen  the  farm  look  like  that — 
ugly  and  black  and  bare.  But  the  fallow  ground,  hun 
dreds  of  acres  of  it,  billowing  away  to  the  south,  had  not 
suffered  any  change  of  color  or  beauty.  To  Kurt  it 
seemed  to  smile  at  him,  to  bid  him  wait  for  another  spring. 

And  that  thought  was  poignant,  for  he  remembered  he 
must  leave  at  once  for  "Many  Waters." 

He  found,  when  he  came  to  wash  the  blood  and  dirt 
from  his  person,  that  his  bruises  were  many.  There  was 
a  lump  on  his  head,  and  his  hands  were  skinned.  After 
changing  his  clothes  and  packing  a  few  things  in  a  valise, 
along  with  his  papers,  he  went  down  to  breakfast.  Though 
preoccupied  in  mind,  he  gathered  that  both  the  old  house 
keeper  and  Jerry  were  surprised  and  dismayed  to  see  him 
ready  to  leave.  He  had  made  no  mention  of  his  inten 
tions.  And  it  struck  him  that  this,  somehow,  was  going 
to  be  hard. 

Indeed,  when  the  moment  came  he  found  that  speech 
was  difficult  and  his  voice  not  natural. 

"Martha — Jerry — I'm  going  away  for  good,"  he  said, 
huskily.  '  '  I  mean  to  make  over  the  farm  to  Mr.  Anderson. 
I'll  leave  you  in  charge  here — and  recommend  that  you 
be  kept  on.  Here's  your  money  up  to  date.  ...  I'm 
going  away  to  the  war — and  the  chances  are  I'll  never 
come  back." 

The  old  housekeeper,  who  had  been  like  a  mother  to 
him  for  many  years,  began  to  cry;  and  Jerry  struggled 
with  a  regret  that  he  could  not  speak. 

Abruptly  Kurt  left  them  and  hurried  out  of  the  house. 
How  strange  that  difficult  feelings  had  arisen — emotions 

177 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

he  had  never  considered  at  all!  But  the  truth  was  that 
he  was  leaving  his  home  forever.  All  was  explained  in 
that. 

First  he  went  to  the  graves  of  his  father  and  mother, 
out  on  the  south  slope,  where  there  were  always  wind  and 
sun.  The  fire  had  not  desecrated  the  simple  burying- 
ground.  There  was  no  grass.  But  a  few  trees  and  bushes 
kept  it  from  appearing  bare. 

Kurt  sat  down  in  the  shade  near  his  mother's  grave  and 
looked  away  across  the  hills  with  dim  eyes.  Something 
came  to  him — a  subtle  assurance  that  his  mother  approved 
of  his  going  to  war.  Kurt  remembered  her — slow,  quiet, 
patient,  hard-working,  dominated  by  his  father. 

The  slope  was  hot  and  still,  with  only  a  rustling  of  leaves 
in  the  wind.  The  air  was  dry.  Kurt  missed  the  sweet 
fragrance  of  wheat.  What  odor  there  was  seemed  to  be 
like  that  of  burning  weeds.  The  great,  undulating 
open  of  the  Bend  extended  on  three  sides.  His  parents 
had  spent  the  best  of  their  lives  there  and  had  now  been 
taken  to  the  bosom  of  the  soil  they  loved.  It  seemed 
natural.  Many  were  the  last  resting-places  of  toilers  of 
the  wheat  there  on  those  hills.  And  surely  in  the  long 
frontier  days,  and  in  the  ages  before,  men  innumerable 
had  gone  back  to  the  earth  from  which  they  had  sprung. 
The  dwelling-places  of  men  were  beautiful;  it  was  only 
life  that  was  sad.  In  this  poignant,  revealing  hour 
Kurt  could  not  resist  human  longings  and  regrets,  though 
he  gained  incalculable  strength  from  these  two  graves  on 
the  windy  slope.  It  was  not  for  any  man  to  understand 
to  the  uttermost  the  meaning  of  life. 

When  he  left  he  made  his  way  across  some  of  the  fallow 
land  and  some  of  the  stubble  fields  that  had  yielded,  alas! 
so  futilely,  such  abundant  harvest.  His  boyhood  days 
came  back  to  him,  when  he  used  to  crush  down  the  stubble 
with  his  bare  feet.  Every  rod  of  the  way  revealed  some 
memory.  He  went  into  the  barn  and  climbed  into  the 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

huge,  airy  loft.  It  smelled  of  straw  and  years  of  dust  and 
mice.  The  swallows  darted  in  and  out,  twittering.  How 
friendly  they  were!  Year  after  year  they  had  returned 
to  their  nests — the  young  birds  returning  to  the  homes 
of  the  old.  Home  even  for  birds  was  a  thing  of  first  and 
vital  importance. 

It  was  a  very  old  barn  that  had  not  many  more  useful 
years  to  stand.  Kurt  decided  that  he  would  advise  that 
it  be  strengthened.  There  were  holes  in  the  rough 
shingling  and  boards  were  off  the  sides.  In  the  corners 
and  on  the  rafters  was  an  accumulation  of  grain  dust  as 
thick  as  snow.  Mice  ran  in  and  out,  almost  as  tame  as  the 
swallows.  He  seemed  to  be  taking  leave  of  them.  He 
recalled  that  he  used  to  chase  and  trap  mice  with  all  a 
boy's  savage  ingenuity.  But  that  boyish  instinct,  along 
with  so  many  things  so  potential  then,  was  gone  now. 

Best  of  all  he  loved  the  horses.  Most  of  these  were  old 
and  had  given  faithful  service  for  many  years.  Indeed, 
there  was  one — Old  Badge — that  had  carried  Kurt  when 
he  was  a  boy.  Once  he  and  a  neighbor  boy  had  gone  to 
the  pasture  to  fetch  home  the  cows.  Old  Badge  was 
there,  and  nothing  would  do  but  that  they  ride  him. 
From  the  fence  Kurt  mounted  to  his  broad  back.  Then 
the  neighbor  boy,  full  of  the  devil,  had  struck  Old  Badge 
with  a  stick.  The  horse  set  off  at  a  gallop  for  home  with 
Kurt,  frantically  holding  on,  bouncing  up  and  down  on 
his  back.  That  had  been  the  ride  of  Kurt's  life.  His 
father  had  whipped  him,  too,  for  the  adventure. 

How  strangely  vivid  and  thought-compelling  were 
these  ordinary  adjuncts  to  his  life  there  on  the  farmi 
It  was  only  upon  giving  them  up  that  he  discovered  their 
real  meaning.  The  hills  of  bare  fallow  and  of  yellow 
slope,  the  old  barn  with  its  horses,  swallows,  mice,  and 
odorous  loft,  the  cows  and  chickens — these  appeared  to 
Kurt,  in  the  illuminating  light  of  farewell,  in  their  true 
relation  to  him.  For  they,  and  the  labor  of  them,  had 
made  him  what  he  was. 

179 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Slowly  he  went  back  to  the  old  house  and  climbed  the 
stairs.  Only  three  rooms  were  there  up-stairs,  and  one  of 
these,  his  mother's,  had  not  been  opened  for  a  long  time. 
It  seemed  just  the  same  as  when  he  used  to  go  to  her  with 
his  stubbed  toes  and  his  troubles.  She  had  died  in  that 
room.  And  now  he  was  a  man,  going  out  to  fight  for 
his  country.  How  strange!  Why?  In  his  mother's 
room  he  could  not  answer  that  puzzling  question.  It 
stung  him,  and  with  a  last  look,  a  good-by,  and  a  word  of 
prayer  on  his  lips,  he  turned  to  his  own  little  room. 

He  entered  and  sat  down  on  the  bed.  It  was  small, 
with  the  slope  of  the  roof  running  down  so  low  that  he 
had  learned  to  stoop  when  close  to  the  wall.  There  was 
no  ceiling.  Bare  yellow  rafters  and  dark  old  shingles 
showed.  He  could  see  light  through  more  than  one  little 
hole.  The  window  was  small,  low,  and  without  glass. 
How  many  times  he  had  sat  there,  leaning  out  in  the  hot 
dusk  of  summer  nights,  dreaming  dreams  that  wrere 
never  to  come  true.  Alas  for  the  hopes  and  illusions  of 
boyhood !  So  long  as  he  could  remember,  this  room  was 
most  closely  associated  with  his  actions  and  his  thoughts. 
It  was  a  part  of  him.  He  almost  took  it  into  his  confidence 
as  if  it  were  human.  Never  had  he  become  what  he  had 
dared  to  dream  he  would,  yet,  somehow,  at  that  moment 
he  was  not  ashamed.  It  struck  him  then  what  few  be 
longings  he  really  had.  But  he  had  been  taught  to  get 
along  with  little. 

Living  in  that  room  was  over  for  him.  He  was  filled 
with  unutterable  sadness.  Yet  he  would  not  have  had 
it  any  different.  Bigger,  and  selfless  things  called  to 
him.  He  was  bidding  farewell  to  his  youth  and  all  that 
it  related  to.  A  solemn  procession  of  beautiful  memories 
passed  through  his  mind,  born  of  the  nights  there  in  that 
room  of  his  boyhood,  with  the  wind  at  the  eaves  and  the 
rain  pattering  on  the  shingles.  What  strong  and  vivid 
pictures!  No  grief,  no  pain,  no  war  could  rob  him  of 
this  best  heritage  from  the  past. 

180 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

He  got  up  to  go.  And  then  a  blinding  rush  of  tears 
burned  his  eyes.  This  room  seemed  dearer  than  all  the 
rest  of  his  home.  It  was  hard  to  leave.  His  last  look 
was  magnified,  transformed.  "Good-by!"  he  whispered, 
with  a  swelling  constriction  in  his  throat.  At  the  head 
of  the  dark  old  stairway  he  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
with  bowed  head  he  slowly  descended. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

AM  August  twilight  settled  softly  down  over  "Many 
Waters"  while  Lenore  Anderson  dreamily  gazed 
from  her  window  out  over  the  darkening  fields  so  tran 
quil  now  after  the  day's  harvest  toil. 

Of  late,  in  thoughtful  hours  such  as  this,  she  had  be 
come  conscious  of  strain,  of  longing.  She  had  fought 
out  a  battle  with  herself,  had  confessed  her  love  for  Kurt 
Dorn,  and,  surrendering  to  the  enchantment  of  that  truth, 
had  felt  her  love  grow  with  every  thought  of  him  and 
every  beat  of  a  thrilling  pulse.  In  spite  of  a  longing  that 
amounted  to  pain  and  a  nameless  dread  she  could  not 
deny,  she  was  happy.  And  she  waited,  with  a  woman's 
presaging  sense  of  events,  for  a  crisis  that  was  coming. 

Presently  she  heard  her  father  down-stairs,  his  heavy 
tread  and  hearty  voice.  These  strenuous  harvest  days 
left  him  little  time  for  his  family.  And  Lenore,  having 
lost  herself  in  her  dreams,  had  not,  of  late,  sought  him  out 
in  the  fields.  She  was  waiting,  and,  besides,  his  keen  eyes, 
at  once  so  penetrating  and  so  kind,  had  confused  her. 
Few  secrets  had  she  ever  kept  from  her  father. 

"Where's  Lenore?"  she  heard  him  ask,  down  in  the 
dining-room. 

"Lenorry's  mooning,"  replied  Kathleen,  with  a  giggle. 

"Ah-huh!  Well,  whereabouts  is  she  moonin'?"  went 
on  Anderson. 

"Why,  in  her  room!"  retorted  the  child.  "And  you 
can't  get  a  word  out  of  her  with  a  crowbar." 

Anderson's  laugh  rang  out  with  a  jingle  of  tableware. 
He  was  eating  his  supper.  Then  Lenore  heard  her  mother 
and  Rose  and  Kathleen  all  burst  out  with  news  of  a  letter 
come  that  day  from  Jim,  away  training  to  be  a  soldier. 
It  was  Rose  who  read  this  letter  aloud  to  her  father, 

182 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

and  outside  of  her  swift,  soft  voice  the  absolute  silence 
attested  to  the  attention  of  the  listeners.  Lenore's 
heart  shook  as  she  distinguished  a  phrase  here  and  there, 
for  Jim's  letter  had  been  wonderful  for  her.  He  had 
gained  weight!  He  was  getting  husky  enough  to  lick 
his  father !  He  was  feeling  great !  There  was  not  a  boy 
in  the  outfit  who  could  beat  him  to  a  stuffed  bag  of  a 
German  soldier!  And  he  sure  could  make  some  job  with 
that  old  bayonet!  So  ran  Jim's  message  to  the  loved 
ones  at  home.  Then  a  strange  pride  replaced  the  quake 
in  Lenore's  heart.  Not  now  would  she  have  had  Jim 
stay  home.  She  had  sacrificed  him.  Something  subtler 
than  thought  told  her  she  would  never  see  him  again. 
And,  oh,  how  dear  he  had  become! 

Then  Anderson  roared  his  delight  in  that  letter  and 
banged  the  table  with  his  fist.  The  girls  excitedly  talked 
in  unison.  But  the  mother  was  significantly  silent. 
Lenore  forgot  them  presently  and  went  back  to  her  dream 
ing.  It  was  just  about  dark  when  her  father  called. 

"Lenore." 

"Yes,  father,"  she  replied. 

"I'm  comin'  up,"  he  said,  and  his  heavy  tread  sounded 
in  the  hall.  It  was  followed  by  the  swift  patter  of  little 
feet.  ' '  Say,  you  kids  go  back.  I  want  to  talk  to  Lenore. ' ' 

"Daddy,"  came  Kathleen's  shrill,  guilty  whisper, 
"I  was  only  in  fun — about  her  mooning." 

The  father  laughed  again  and  slowly  mounted  the  stairs. 
Lenore  reflected  uneasily  that  he  seldom  came  to  her 
room.  Also,  when  he  was  most  concerned  with  trouble 
he  usually  sought  her. 

"Hello!  All  in  the  dark?"  he  said,  as  he  came  in. 
"May  I  turn  on  the  light?" 

Lenore  assented,  though  not  quite  readily.  But 
Anderson  did  not  turn  on  the  light.  He  bumped  into 
things  on  the  way  to  where  she  was  curled  up  in  her 
window-seat,  and  he  dropped  wearily  into  Lenore's  big 
arm-chair. 

183 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"How  are  you,  daddy?"  she  inquired. 

"Dog  tired,  but  feelin'  fine,"  he  replied.  "I've  got  a 
meetin'  at  eight  an'  I  need  a  rest.  Reckon  I'd  like  to 
smoke — an'  talk  to  you — if  you  don't  mind." 

"I'd  sure  rather  listen  to  my  dad  than  any  one,"  she 
replied,  softly.  She  knew  he  had  come  with  news  or 
trouble  or  need  of  help.  He  always  began  that  way. 
She  could  measure  his  mood  by  the  preliminaries  before 
his  disclosure.  And  she  fortified  herself. 

"Wasn't  that  a  great  letter  from  the  boy?"  began 
Anderson,  as  he  lit  a  cigar.  By  the  flash  of  the  match 
Lenore  got  a  glimpse  of  his  dark  and  unguarded  face. 
Indeed,  she  did  well  to  fortify  herself. 

"Fine!  .  .  .  He  wrote  it  to  me.  I  laughed.  I  swelled 
with  pride.  It  sent  my  blood  racing.  It  filled  me  with 
fight.  .  .  .  Then  I  sneaked  up  here  to  cry." 

"Ah-huh!"  exclaimed  Anderson,  with  a  loud  sigh. 
Then  for  a  moment  of  silence  the  end  of  his  cigar  alter 
nately  paled  and  glowed.  "Lenore,  did  you  get  any — 
any  kind  of  a  hunch  from  Jim's  letter?" 

"I  don't  exactly  understand  what  you  mean,"  replied 
Lenore. 

"Did  somethin' — strange  an'  different  come  to  you?" 
queried  Anderson,  haltingly,  as  if  words  were  difficult 
to  express  what  he  meant. 

"Why,  yes — I  had  many  strange  feelings." 

"Jim's  letter  was  just  like  he  talks.  But  to  me  it 
said  somethin'  he  never  meant  an'  didn't  know.  .  .  . 
Jim  will  never  come  back!" 

"Yes,  dad— I  divined  just  that,"  whispered  Lenore. 

"Strange  about  that,"  mused  Anderson,  with  a  pull 
on  his  cigar. 

And  then  followed  a  silence.  Lenore  felt  how  long  ago 
her  father  had  made  his  sacrifice.  There  did  not  seem  to 
be  any  need  for  more  words  about  Jim.  But  there  seemed 
a  bigness  in  the  bond  of  understanding  between  her  and 
her  father.  A  cause  united  them,  and  they  were  sustained 

184 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

by  unfaltering  courage.  The  great  thing  was  the  divine 
spark  in  the  boy  who  could  not  have  been  held  back. 
Lenore  gazed  out  into  the  darkening  shadows.  The 
night  was  very  still,  except  for  the  hum  of  insects,  and 
the  cool  air  felt  sweet  on  her  face.  The  shadows,  the 
silence,  the  sleeping  atmosphere  hovering  over  "Many 
Waters,''  seemed  charged  with  a  quality  of  present  sadness, 
of  the  inexplicable  great  world  moving  to  its  fate. 

" Lenore,  you  haven't  been  around  much  lately,"  re 
sumed  Anderson.  "  Sure  you're  missed.  An'  Jake  swears 
a  lot  more  than  usual." 

"Father,  you  told  me  to  stay  at  home,"  she  replied. 

"So  I  did.  An'  I  reckon  it's  just  as  well.  But  when 
did  you  ever  before  mind  me?" 

"Why,  I  always  obey  you,"  replied  Lenore,  with  her 
low  laugh. 

"Ah-huh!  Not  so  I'd  notice  it.  .  .  .  Lenore,  have  you 
seen  the  big  clouds  of  smoke  driftin'  over  'Many  Waters' 
these  last  few  days?" 

"Yes.  And  I've  smelled  smoke,  too.  .  .  .  From  forest 
fire,  is  it  not?" 

"There's  fire  in  some  of  the  timber,  but  the  wind's 
wrong  for  us  to  get  smoke  from  the  foot-hills." 

"Then  where  does  the  smoke  come  from?"  queried' 
Lenore,  quickly. 

"Some  of  the  Bend  wheat  country's  been  burned  over." 

' '  Burned !     You  mean  the  wheat  ? ' ' 

"Sure." 

"Oh!     What  part  of  the  Bend?" 

"I  reckon  it's  what  you  called  young  Dorn's  desert  of 
wheat." 

"Oh,  what  a  pity!  .  .  .  Have  you  had  word?" 

"Nothin'  but  rumors  yet.  But  I'm  fearin'  the  worst 
an'  I'm  sorry  for  our  young  friend." 

A  sharp  pain  shot  through  Lenore's  breast,  leaving 
behind  an  ache. 

"  It  will  ruin  him !"  she  whispered. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Aw  no,  not  that  bad,"  declared  Anderson,  and  there 
was  a  red  streak  in  the  dark  where  evidently  he  waved 
his  cigar  in  quick,  decisive  action.  "It  '11  only  be  tough 
on  him  an'  sort  of  embarrassin'  for  me — an'  you.  That 
boy's  proud.  .  .  .  I'll  bet  he  raised  hell  among  them 
I.  W.  W.'s,  if  he  got  to  them."  And  Anderson  chuckled 
with  the  delight  he  always  felt  in  the  Western  apprecia 
tion  of  summary  violence  justly  dealt. 

Lenore  felt  the  rising  tide  of  her  anger.  She  was  her 
father's  daughter,  yet  always  had  been  slow  to  wrath. 
That  was  her  mother's  softness  and  gentleness  tempering 
the  hard  spirit  of  her  father.  But  now  her  blood  ran 
hot,  beating  and  bursting  about  her  throat  and  temples. 
And  there  was  a  leap  and  quiver  to  her  body. 

"Dastards!  Father,  those  foreign  I.  W.  W.  devils 
should  be  shot!"  she  cried,  passionately.  "To  ruin  those 
poor,  heroic  farmers!  To  ruin  that — that  boy!  It's  a 
crime!  And,  oh,  to  burn  his  beautiful  field  of  wheat — 
with  all  his  hopes !  Oh,  what  shall  I  call  that !" 

"Wai,  lass,  I  reckon  it  'd  take  stronger  speech  than  any 
you  know,"  responded  Anderson.  "An'  I'm  usin'  that 
same." 

Lenore  sat  there  trembling,  with  hot  tears  running  down 
her  cheeks,  with  her  fists  clenched  so  tight  that  her  nails 
cut  into  her  palms.  Rage  only  proved  to  her  how  impotent 
she  was  to  avert  catastrophe.  How  bitter  and  black 
were  some  trials !  She  shrank  with  a  sense  of  acute  pain 
at  thought  of  the  despair  there  must  be  in  the  soul  of 
Kurt  Dorn. 

"Lenore,"  began  Anderson,  slowly — his  tone  was 
stronger,  vibrant  with  feeling — "you  love  this  young 
Dorn!" 

A  tumultuous  shock  shifted  Lenore's  emotions.  She 
quivered  as  before,  but  this  was  a  long,  shuddering  thrill 
shot  over  her  by  that  spoken  affirmation.  What  she  had 
whispered  shyly  and  fearfully  to  herself  when  alone  and 
hidden — what  had  seemed  a  wonderful  and  forbidden 

z  86 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

secret — her  father  had  spoken  out.  Lenore  gasped.  Her 
anger  fled  as  it  had  never  been.  Even  in  the  dark  she 
hid  her  face  and  tried  to  grasp  the  wild,  whirling  thoughts 
and  emotions  now  storming  her.  He  had  not  asked.  He 
had  affirmed.  He  knew.  She  could  not  deceive  him 
even  if  she  would.  And  then  for  a  moment  she  was 
weak,  at  the  mercy  of  contending  tides. 

"Sure  I  seen  he  was  in  love  with  you,"  Anderson  was 
saying.  "Seen  that  right  off,  an'  I  reckon  I'd  not  thought 
much  of  him  if  he  hadn't  been.  .  .  .  But  I  wasn't  sure  of 
you  till  the  day  Dorn  saved  you  from  Ruenke  an'  fetched 
you  back.  Then  I  seen.  An'  I've  been  waitin'  for  you 
to  tell  me." 

"There's — nothing — to  tell,"  faltered  Lenore. 

" I  reckon  there  is,"  he  replied.  Leaning  over,  he  threw 
his  cigar  out  of  the  window  and  took  hold  of  her, 

Lenore  had  never  felt  him  so  impelling.  She  was  not 
proof  against  the  .trong,  warm  pressure  of  his  hand.  She 
felt  in  its  clasp,  as  she  had  v/hen  a  little  girl,  a  great  and 
sure  safety.  It  drew  her  irresistibly.  She  crept  into  his 
arms  and  buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder,  and  she  had  a  feel 
ing  that  if  she  could  not  relieve  her  heart  it  would  burst. 

"Oh,  d — dad,"  she  whispered,  with  a  soft,  hushed  voice 
that  broke  tremulously  at  her  lips,  "I — I  love  him!.  .  . 
I  do  love  him.  .  .  .  It's  terrible!  ...  I  knew  it — that 
last  time  you  took  me  to  his  home — when  he  said  he  was 
going  to  war.  .  .  .  And,  oh,  now  you  know!" 

Anderson  held  her  tight  against  his  broad  breast  that 
lifted  her  with  its  great  heave.  "Ah-huh!  Reckon 
that's  some  relief.  I  wasn't  so  darn  sure,"  said  Ander 
son.  * '  Has  he  spoken  to  you  ? ' ' 

' '  Spoken  I     What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"Has  Dorn  told  you  he  loved  you?" 

Lenore  lifted  her  face.     If  that  confession  of  hers  had 
been  relief  to  her  father  it  had  been  more  so  to  her.     What 
had  seemed  terrible  began  to  feel  natural.     Still,  she  was 
all  intense,  vibrating,  internally  convulsed, 
13  187 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Yes,  he  has,"  she  replied,  shyly.  "But  such  a  con 
fession  !  He  told  it  as  if  to  explain  what  he  thought  was 
boldness  on  his  part.  He  had  fallen  in  love  with  me  at 
first  sight!  .  .  .  And  then  meeting  me  was  too  much  for 
him.  He  wanted  me  to  know.  He  was  going  away  to 
war.  He  asked  nothing.  .  .  .  He  seemed  to  apologize  for 
• — for  daring  to  love  me.  He  asked  nothing.  And  he  has 
absolutely  not  the  slightest  idea  I  care  for  him." 

"Wai,  I'll  be  dog-goned'"  ejaculated  Anderson. 
"What's  the  matter  with  him?" 

"Dad,  he  is  proud,"  replied  Lenore,  dreamily.  "He's 
had  a  hard  struggle  out  there  in  his  desert  of  wheat. 
They've  always  been  poor.  He  imagines  there's  a  vast 
distance  between  an  heiress  of  'Many  Waters'  and  a 
farmer  boy.  Then,  more  than  all,  I  think,  the  war  has  fixed 
a  morbid  trouble  in  his  mind.  God  knows  it  must  be 
real  enough!  A  house  divided  against  itself  is  what  he 
called  his  home.  His  father  is  German.  He  is  American. 
He  worshiped  his  mother,  who  was  a  native  of  the  United 
States,  lie  has  become  estranged  from  his  father.  I 
don't  know — I'm  not  sure — but  I  felt  that  he  was  obsessed 
by  a  calamity  in  his  German  blood.  I  divined  that  was 
the  <?reat  reason  for  his  eagerness  to  go  to  war." 

"Wai,  Kurt  Dorn's  not  goin'  to  war,"  replied  her  father. 
"I  fixed  that  all  right." 

An  amazing  and  rapturous  start  thrilled  over  Lenore. 
"Daddy!"  she  cried,  leaping  up  in  his  arms,  "what  have 
you  done?" 

"I  got  exemption  for  him,  that's  what,"  replied  Ander 
son,  with  great  satisfaction. 

"Exemption!"  exclaimed  Lenore,  in  bewilderment. 

"Don't  you  remember  the  government  official  from 
Washington?  You  met  him  in  Spokane.  He  was  out 
West  to  inspire  the  farmers  to  raise  mord  wheat.  There 
are  many  young  farmers  needed  a  thousand  times  more 
on  the  wheat-fields  than  on  the  battle-fields.  An'  Kurt 
Dorn  is  one  of  them.  That  boy  will  make  the  biggest 

188 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

sower  of  wheat  in  the  Northwest.     I  recommended  ex 
emption  for  Dorn.  An'  he's  exempted  an'  doesn't  know  it." 

"Doesn't  know!  He'll  never  accept  exemption,"  de 
clared  Lenore. 

"Lass,  I'm  some  worried  myself,"  rejoined  Anderson. 
"Reckon  you've  explained  Dorn  to  me — that  somethin* 
queer  about  him.  .  .  .  But  he's  sensible.  He  can  b© 
told  things.  An'  he'll  see  how  much  more  he's  needed  to 
raise  wheat  than  to  kill  Germans." 

"But,  father — suppose  he  wants  to  kill  Germans ?" 
asked  Lenore,  earnestly.  How  strangely  she  felt  things 
about  Dorn  that  she  could  not  explain. 

"Then,  by  George!  it's  up  to  you,  my  girl,"  replied  her 
father,  grimly.  "Understand  me.  I've  no  sentiment 
about  Doni  in  this  matter.  One  good  wheat-raiser  is 
worth  a  dozen  soldiers.  To  win  the  war — to  feed  our 
country  after  the  war — why,  only  a  man  like  me  knows 
what  it  '11  take!  It  means  millions  of  bushels  of  wheat! 
.  .  .  I've  sent  my  own  boy.  He'll  fight  with  the  best  or 
the  worst  of  them.  But  he'd  never  been  a  man  to  raise 
wheat.  All  Jim  ever  raised  is  hell.  An'  his  kind  is  needed 
now.  So  let  him  go  to  war.  But  Dorn  must  be  kept 
home.  An'  that's  up  to  Lenore  Anderson." 

"Me!  ...  Oh— how?"  cried  Lenore,  faintly. 

"Woman's  wiles,  daughter,"  said  Anderson,  with  his 
frank  laugh.  "When  Dorn  comes  let  me  try  to  show  him 
his  duty.  The  Northwest  can't  spare  young  men  like 
him.  He'll  see  that.  If  he  has  lost  his  wheat  he'll  come 
down  here  to  make  me  take  the  land  in  payment  of  the 
debt.  I'll  accept  it.  Then  he'll  say  he's  goin'  to  war, 
an'  then  I'll  say  he  ain't.  .  .  .  We'll  have  it  out.  I'll 
offer  him  such  a  chance  here  an'  in  the  Bend  that  he'd 
have  to  be  crazy  to  refuse.  But  if  he  has  got  a  twist 
in  his  mind — if  he  thinks  he's  got  to  go  out  an'  kill  Ger 
mans — then  you'll  have  to  change  him." 

"But,  dad,  how  on  earth  can  I  do  that?"  implored 
Lenore,  distracted  between  hope  and  joy  and  fear. 

189 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"You're  a  woman  now.  An'  women  are  in  this  war 
up  to  their  eyes.  You'll  be  doin'  more  to  keep  him  home 
than  if  you  let  him  go.  He's  moony  about  you.  You 
can  make  him  stay.  An'  it's  your  future — your  happiness. 
.  .  .  Child,  n<5~  Anderson  ever  loves  twice." 

"I  cannot  throw  myself  into  his  arms,"  whispered 
Lenore,  very  low. 

"Reckon  I  didn't  mean  you  to,"  returned  Anderson, 
gruffly. 

"Then — if — if  he  does  not  ask  me  to — to  marry  him — • 
how  can  I — " 

"Lenore,  no  man  on  earth  could  resist  you  if  you  just 
let  yourself  be  sweet — as  sweet  as  you  are  sometimes. 
Dorn  could  never  leave  you!" 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  daddy,"  she  murmured. 

"Then  take  my  word  for  it,"  he  replied,  and  he  got  up 
from  the  chair,  though  still  holding  her.  "I'll  have  to 
go  now.  .  .  .  But  I've  shown  my  hand  to  you.  Your 
happiness  is  more  to  me  than  anythin'  else  in  this  world. 
You  love  that  boy.  He  loves  you.  An'  I  never  met  a 
finer  lad!  Wai,  here's  the  point.  He  need  be  no  slacker 
to  stay  home.  He  can  do  more  good  here.  Then  out 
side  of  bein'  a  wheat  man  for  his  army  an'  his  country  he 
can  be  one  for  me.  I'm  growin'  old,  my  lass!  .  .  .  Here's 
the  biggest  ranch  in  Washington  to  look  after,  an'  I 
want  Kurt  Dorn  to  look  after  it.  ...  Now,  Lenore,  do 
we  understand  each  other?" 

She  put  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "Dear  old  daddy, 
you're  the  wonderfulest  father  any  girl  ever  had!  I 
would  do  my  best — I  would  obey  even  if  I  did  not  love 
Kurt  Dorn.  ...  To  hear  you  speak  so  of  him — oh,  it's 
sweet!  It  —  chokes  me!  .  .  .  Now,  good -night.  .  .  . 
Hurry,  before  I — " 

She  kissed  him  and  gently  pushed  him  out  of  the  room. 
Then  before  the  sound  of  his  slow  footfalls  had  quite 
passed  out  of  hearing  she  lay  prone  upon  her  bed,  her  face 
buried  in  the  pillow,  her  hands  clutching  the  coverlet, 

190 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

utterly  surrendered  to  a  breaking  storm  of  emotion. 
Terrible  indeed  had  come  that  presaged  crisis  of  her  life. 
Love  of  her  wild  brother  Jim,  gone  to  atone  forever  for 
the  errors  of  his  youth;  love  of  her  father,  confessing  at 
last  the  sad  fear  that  haunted  him;  love  of  Dorn,  that 
stalwart  clear-eyed  lad  who  set  his  face  so  bravely  toward 
a  hopeless,  tragic  fate— these  were  the  burden  of  the  flood 
cf  her  passion,  and  all  they  involved,  rushing  her  from  girl 
hood  into  womanhood,  calling  to  her  with  imperious, 
desires,  with  deathless  loyalty. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

AFTER  Lenore's  paroxysm  of  emotion  had  subsided 
and  she  lay  quietly  in  the  dark,  she  became  aware 
of  soft,  hurried  footfalls  passing  along  the  path  below  her 
window.  At  first  she  paid  no  particular  heed  to  them, 
but  at  length  the  steady  steps  became  so  different  in  num 
ber,  and  so  regtilar  in  passing  every  few  moments,  that 
she  was  interested  to  go  to  her  window  and  look  out. 
Watching  there  awhile,  she  saw  a  number  of  men,  whisper 
ing  and  talking  low,  come  from  the  road,  pass  under  her 
window,  and  disappear  down  the  path  into  the  grove. 
Then  no  more  came.  Lenore  feared  at  first  these  strange 
visitors  might  be  prowling  I.  W.  W.  men.  She  concluded, 
however,  that  they  were  neighbors  and  farm-hands,  come 
for  secret  conference  with  her  father. 

Important  events  were  pending,  and  her  father  had  not 
taken  her  into  his  confidence!  It  must  be,  then,  some 
thing  that  he  did  not  wish  her  to  know.  Only  a  week  ago, 
when  the  I.  W.  W.  menace  had  begun  to  be  serious,  she 
had  asked  him  how  he  intended  to  meet  it,  and  particu 
larly  how  he  would  take  sure  measures  to  protect  himself. 
Anderson  had  laughed  down  her  fears,  and  Lenore,  ab 
sorbed  in  her  own  tumult,  had  been  easily  satisfied.  But 
now,  with  her  curiosity  there  returned  a  twofold  dread. 

She  put  on  a  cloak  and  went  down-stairs.  The  hour 
was  still  early.  She  heard  the  girls  with  her  mother  in 
the  sitting-room.  As  Lenore  slipped  out  she  encountered 
Jake.  He  appeared  to  loom  right  out  of  the  darkness 
and  he  startled  her. 

"Howdy,  Miss  Lenore!"  he  said.  "Where  might  you 
be  goin'?" 

"Jake,  I'm  curious  about  the  men  I  heard  passing  by 
my  window,"  she  replied.  Then  she  observed  that  Jake 

192 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

had  a  rifle  under  his  arm,  and  she  added,  "What  are  you 
doing  with  that  gun?" 

"Wai,  I've  sort  of  gone  back  to  packin'  a  Winchester," 
replied  Jake. 

Lenore  missed  his  smile,  ever  ready  for  her.  Jake 
looked  somber. 

"You're  on  guard!"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  reckon.  There's  four  of  us  boys  round  the  house. 
You're  not  goin'  off  thet  step,  Miss  Lenore." 

"Oh,  ah-huh!"  replied  Lenore,  imitating  her  father,  and 
bantering  Jake,  more  for  the  fun  of  it  than  from  any 
intention  of  disobeying  him.  "Who's  going  to  keep  me 
from  it?" 

"I  am.  Boss's  orders,  Miss  Lenore.  I'm  dog-gone 
sorry.  But  you  sure  oughtn't  to  be  outdoors  this  far," 
replied  Jake. 

"Look  here,  my  cowboy  dictator.  I'm  going  to  see 
where  those  men  went,"  said  Lenore,  and  forthwith  she 
stepped  down  to  the.  path. 

Then  Jake  deliberately  leaned  his  rifle  against  a  post 
and,  laying  hold  of  her  with  no  gentle  hands,  he  swung 
her  in  one  motion  back  upon  the  porch.  The  broad  light 
streaming  out  of  the  open  door  showed  that,  whatever  his 
force  meant,  it  had  paled  his  face  to  exercise  it. 

"Why,  Jake — to  handle  me  that  way!"  cried  Lenore, 
in  pretended  reproach.  She  meant  to  frighten  or  coax 
the  truth  out  of  him.  "You  hurt  me!" 

"I'm  beggin'  your  pardon  if  I  was  rough,"  said  Jake. 
"Fact  is,  I'm  a  little  upset  an'  I  mean  bizness." 

Whereupon  Lenore  stepped  back  to  close  the  door,  and 
then,  in  the  shadow,  she  returned  to  Jake  and  whispered: 
"I  was  only  in  fun.  I  would  not  think  of  disobeying  you. 
But  you  can  trust  me.  I'll  not  tell,  and  111  worry  less 
if  I  know  what's  what.  .  .  .  Jake,  is  father  in  danger?" 

"I  reckon.  But  the  best  we  could  do  was  to  make  him 
stand  fer  a  guard.  There's  four  of  us  cowpunchers  with 
him  all  day,  an'  at  night  he's  surrounded  by  guards. 

193 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

There  ain't  much  chance  of  his  gittin'  hurt.  So  yon 
needn't  worry  about  thet." 

"Who  are  these  men  I  heard  passing?  Where  are  they 
from?" 

"  Farmers,  ranchers,  cowboys,  from  all  over  this  side  of 
the  river." 

"There  must  have  been  a  lot  of  them,"  said  Lenore, 
curiously. 

"Reckon  you  never  heerd  the  quarter  of  what's  come  to 
attend  Anderson's  meetin'." 

"What  for?     Tell  me,  Jake." 

The  cowboy  hesitated.  Lenore  heard  his  big  hand  slap 
round  the  rifle-stock. 

"We've  orders  not  to  tell  thet,"  he  replied. 

' '  But,  Jake,  you  can  tell  me.  You  always  tell  me  secrets. 
I'll  not  breathe  it." 

Jake  came  closer  to  her,  and  his  tall  head  reached  to  a 
level  with  hers,  where  she  stood  on  the  porch.  Lenore  saw 
his  dark,  set  face,  his  gleaming  eyes. 

"Wai,  it's  jest  this  here,"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 
"Your  dad  has  organized  vigilantes,  like  he  belonged  to  in 
the  early  days.  .  .  .  An'  it's  the  vigilantes  thet  will  attend 
to  this  I.  W.  W.  outfit." 

Those  were  thrilling  words  to  Jake,  as  was  attested  by 
his  emotion,  and  they  surely  made  Lenore 's  knees  knock 
together.  She  had  heard  many  stories  from  her  father  of 
that  famous  old  vigilante  band,  secret,  making  the  law 
where  there  was  no  law. 

1 '  Oh,  I  might  have  expected  that  of  dad !"  she  murmured. 

"Wai,  it's  sure  the  trick  out  here.  An'  your  father's 
the  man  to  deal  it.  There'll  be  dog-goned  little  wheat 
burned  in  this  valley,  you  can  gamble  on  thet." 

"I'm  glad.  I  hate  the  very  thought.  .  .  .  Jake,  you 
know  about  Mr.  Dorn's  misfortune?" 

"No,  I  'ain't  heerd  about  him.  But  I  knowed  the  Bend 
was  burnin'  over,  an'  of  course  I  reckoned  Dorn  would  lose 
his  wheat.  Fact  is,  he  had  the  only  wheat  up  there  worth 

194 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

savin'  .  .  Wai,  these  I.  W.  W.'s  an'  their  German  bosses 
hev  put  it  all  over  the  early  days  when  rustlin'  cattle, 
holdin'  up  stage-coaches,  an'  jest  plain  cussedness  was 
stylish." 

"Jake,  I'd  rather  have  lived  back  in  the  early  days," 
mused  Lenore. 

"Me  too,  though  I  ain't  no  youngster,"  he  replied. 
"Reckon  you'd  better  go  in  now,  Miss  Lenore.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  worry  none  or  lose  any  sleep." 

Lenore  bade  the  cowboy  good-night  and  went  to  the 
sitting-room.  Her  mother  sat  preoccupied,  with  sad  and 
thoughtful  face.  Rose  was  writing  many  pages  to  Jim. 
Kathleen  sat  at  the  table,  surreptitiously  eating  while 
she  was  pretending  to  read. 

"My,  but  you  look  funny,  Lenorry!"  she  cried. 

"Why  don't  you  laugh,  then?"  retorted  Lenore. 

"You're  white.  Your  eyes  are  big  and  purple.  You 
look  like  a  starved  cannibal.  ...  If  that's  what  it's  like 
to  be  in  love — excuse  me — I'll  never  fall  for  any  man!" 

"You  ought  to  be  in  bed.  Mother,  I  recommend  the 
baby  of  the  family  be  sent  up-stairs." 

"Yes,  child,  it's  long  past  your  bedtime,"  said  Mrs. 
Anderson. 

"Aw,  no!"  wailed  Kathleen. 

"Yes,"  ordered  her  mother. 

"But  you'd  never  thought  of  it — if  Lenorry  hadn't 
said  so,"  replied  Kathleen. 

"You  should  obey  Lenore,"  reprovingly  said  Mrs. 
Anderson. 

"  "What?  Me!  Mind  her!"  burst  out  Kathleen,  hotly, 
as  she  got  up  to  go.  "  Well,  I  guess  not !' '  Kathleen  backed 
to  the  door  and  opened  it.  Then  making  a  frightful  face 
at  Lenore,  most  expressive  of  ridicule  and  revenge,  she 
darted  up-stairs. 

"My  dear,  will  you  write  to  your  brother?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Anderson. 

"Yes,"  replied  Lenore.     "I'll  send  mine  with  Rose's." 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Mrs.  Anderson  bade  the  girls  good-night  and  left  the 
room.  After  that  nothing  was  heard  for  a  while  except 
the  scratching  of  pens. 

It  was  late  when  Lenore  retired,  yet  she  found  sleep 
elusive.  The  evening  had  made  subtle,  indefinable 
changes  in  her.  She  went  over  in  mind  all  that  had  been 
said  to  her  and  which  she  felt,  with  the  result  that  one 
thing  remained  to  torment  and  perplex  and  thrill  her — to 
keep  Kurt  Dorn  from  going  to  war. 

Next  day  Lenore  did  not  go  out  to  the  harvest  fields. 
She  expected  Dorn  might  arrive  at  any  time,  and  she 
wanted  to  be  there  when  he  came.  Yet  she  dreaded  the 
meeting.  She  had  to  keep  her  hands  active  that  day,  so 
in  some  measure  to  control  her  mind.  A  thousand  times 
she  felt  herself  on  the  verge  of  thrilling  and  flushing. 
Her  fancy  and  imagination  seemed  wonderfully  active. 
The  day  was  more  than  usually  golden,  crowned  with  an 
azure  blue,  like  the  blue  of  the  Pacific.  She  worked  in 
her  room,  helped  her  mother,  took  up  her  knitting,  and 
sewed  upon  a  dress,  and  even  lent  a  hand  in  the  kitchen. 
But  action  could  not  wholly  dull  the  song  in  her  heart. 
She  felt  unutterably  young,  as  if  life  had  just  opened, 
with  haunting,  limitless,  beautiful  possibilities.  Never 
had  the  harvest-time  been  so  sweet. 

Anderson  came  in  early  from  the  fields  that  day.  He 
looked  like  a  farm-hand,  with  his  sweaty  shirt,  his  dusty 
coat,  his  begrimed  face.  And  when  he  kissed  Lenore  he 
left  a  great  smear  on  her  cheek. 

" That's  a  harvest  kiss,  my  lass,"  he  said,  with  his  big 
laugh.  "Best  of  the  whole  year!" 

"It  sure  is,  dad,"  she  replied.  "But  I'll  wait  till  you 
wash  your  face  before  I  return  it.  How's  the  harvest 
going?" 

"We  had  trouble  to-day,"  he  said. 

"What  happened?" 

*'Nothin'  much,  but  it  was  annoyin'.  We  had  some 

196 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

machines  crippled,  an'  it  took  most  of  the  day  to  fix 
them.  .  .  .  We've  got  a  couple  of  hundred  hands  at  work. 
Some  of  them  are  I.  W.  W.'s,  that's  sure.  But  they  all 
swear  they  are  not  an'  we  have  no  way  to  prove  it.  An' 
we  couldn't  catch  them  at  their  tricks.  .  .  .  All  the  same, 
we've  got  half  your  big  wheat-field  cut.  A  thousand 
acres,  Lenore !  .  .  .  Some  of  the  wheat  '11  go  forty  bushels 
to  the  acre,  but  mostly  under  that." 

"Better  than  last  harvest,"  Lenore  replied,  gladly. 
"We  are  lucky.  .  .  .  Father,  did  you  hear  any  news 
from  the  Bend?" 

"Sure  did,"  he  replied,  and  patted  her  head.  "They 
sent  me  a  message  up  from  Vale.  .  .  .  Young  Dorn 
wired  from  Kilo  he'd  be  here  to-day." 

"To-day!"  echoed  Lenore,  and  her  heart  showed  a 
tendency  to  act  strangely. 

"Yep.  He'll  be  here  soon,"  said  Anderson,  cheerfully. 
"Tell  your  mother.  Mebbe  he'll  come  for  supper.  An' 
have  a  room  ready  for  him." 

"Yes,  father,"  replied  Lenore. 

"Wai,  if  Dorn  sees  you  as  you  look  now — sleeves  rolled 
up,  apron  on,  flour  on  your  nose — a  regular  farmer  girl — 
an'  sure  huggable,  as  Jake  says — you  won't  have  no  trouble 
winnin'  him." 

"How  you  talk!"  exclaimed  Lenore,  with  burning 
cheeks.  She  ran  to  her  room  and  made  haste  to  change 
her  dress. 

But  Dorn  did  not  arrive  in  time  for  supper.  Eight 
o'clock  came  without  his  appearing,  after  which,  with  keen 
disappointment,  Lenore  gave  up  expecting  him  that  night. 
She  was  in  her  father's  study,  helping  him  with  the  harvest 
notes  and  figures,  when  Jake  knocked  and  entered. 

"Dorn's  here,"  he  announced. 

"Good.     Fetch  him  in,"  replied  Anderson. 

"Father,  I — I'd  rather  go,"  whispered  Lenore. 

"You  stay  right  along  by  your  dad,"  was  his  reply, 
"an'  be  a  real  Anderson." 

197 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

When  Lenore  heard  Dorn's  step  in  the  hall  the  flutter 
ing  ceased  in  her  heart  and  she  grew  calm.  How  glad 
she  would  be  to  see  him!  It  had  been  the  suspense  of 
waiting  that  had  played  havoc  with  her  feelings. 

Then  Dorn  entered  with  Jake.  The  cowboy  set  down 
a  bag  and  went  out.  He  seemed  strange  to  Lenore  and 
very  handsome  in  his  gray  flannel  suit. 

As  he  stepped  forward  in  greeting  Lenore  saw  how  white 
he  was,  how  tragic  his  eyes.  There  had  come  a  subtle 
change  in  his  face.  It  hurt  her. 

"Miss  Anderson,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  and  a 
flash  of  red  stained  his  white  cheeks.  ' '  How  are  you  ?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"  she  replied,  offering  her  hand. 
"I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

They  shook  hands,  while  Anderson  boomed  out: 
"Hello,  son!  I  sure  am  glad  to  welcome  you  to  'Many 
Waters.'" 

No  doubt  as  to  the  rancher's  warm  and  hearty  greeting ! 
It  warmed  some  of  the  coldness  out  of  Dorn's  face. 

4 ' Thank  you.     It's  good  to  come — yet  it's — it's  hard." 

Lenore  saw  his  throat  swell.  His  voice  seemed  low  and 
full  of  emotion. 

"Bad  news  to  tell,"  said  Anderson.  "Wai,  forget 
it.  ...  Have  you  had  supper?" 

"Yes.  At  Huntington.  I'd  have  been  here  sooner, 
but  we  punctured  a  tire.  My  driver  said  the  I.  W.  W. 
was  breaking  bottles  on  the  roads." 

"I.  W.  W.  Now  where 'd  I  ever  hear  that  name?" 
asked  Anderson,  quizzically.  "Bustin'  bottles,  hey? 
Wai,  they'll  be  bustin'  their  heads  presently.  ...  Sit 
down,  Dorn.  You  look  fine,  only  you're  sure  pale." 

"I  lost  my  father,"  said  Dorn. 

"What!  Your  old  man?  Dead?  .  .  .  Aw,  that's 
tough!" 

Lenore  felt  an  almost  uncontrollable  impulse  to  go  to 
Dorn.  "Oh,  I'm  sorry!"  she  said. 

"That  is  a  surprise,"  went  on  Anderson,  rather  huskily. 

198 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"My  Lord!  But  it's  only  round  the  corner  for  every 
man.  .  .  .  Come  on,  tell  us  all  about  it,  an'  the  rest  of 
the  bad  news.  .  .  .  Get  it  over.  Then,  mebbe  Lenore 
an'  me — " 

But  Anderson  did  not  conclude  his  last  sentence. 

Dorn's  face  began  to  work  as  he  began  to  talk,  and  his 
eyes  were  dark  and  deep,  burning  with  gloom. 

"Bad  news  it  is,  indeed.  .  .  .  Mr.  Anderson,  the 
I.  W.  W.  marked  us.  ...  You'll  remember  your  sugges> 
tion  about  getting  my  neighbors  to  harvest  our  wheat  in 
a  rush.  I  went  all  over,  and  almost  all  of  them  came. 
We  had  been  finding  phosphorus  everywhere.  Then, 
on  the  hot  day,  fires  broke  out  all  around.  My  neigh 
bors  left  their  own  burning  fields  to  save  ours.  We 
fought  fire.  We  fought  fire  all  around  us,  late  into  the 
night.  .  .  .  My  father  had  grown  furious,  maddened  at 
the  discovery  of  how  he  had  been  betrayed  by  Glidden. 
You  remember  the — the  plot,  in  which  some  way  my 
father  was  involved.  He  would  not  believe  the  I.  W.  W. 
meant  to  burn  his  wheat.  And  when  the  fires  broke  out 
he  worked  like  a  madman.  ...  It  killed  him!  .  .  . 
I  was  not  with  him  when  he  died.  But  Jerry,  our  fore 
man  was.  .  .  .  And  my  father's  last  words  were, 
'Tell  my  son  I  was  wrong.'  .  .  .  Thank  God  he  sent  me 
that  message!  I  think  in  that  he  confessed  the  iniquity 
of  the  Germans.  .  .  .  Well,  my  neighbor,  Olsen,  managed 
the  harvest.  He  sure  rushed  it.  I'd  have  given  a.  good 
deal  for  you  and  Miss  Anderson  to  have  seen  all  those 
big  combines  at  work  on  one  field.  It  was  great.  We 
harvested  over  thirty-eight  thousand  bushels  and  got 
all  the  wheat  safely  to  the  elevators  at  the  station.  .  .  . 
And  that  night  the  I.  W.  W.  burned  the  elevators!" 

Anderson's  face  turned  purple.  He  appeared  about  to 
explode.  There  was  a  deep  nimbling  within  his  throat 
that  Lenore  knew  to  be  profanity  restrained  on  account  of 
her  presence.  As  for  her  own  feelings,  they  were  a  strange 
mixture  of  sadness  for  Dorn  and  pride  in  her  father's  fury, 

199 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

and  something  unutterably  sweet  in  the  revelation  about 
to  be  made  to  this  unfortunate  boy.  But  she  could  not 
speak  a  word  just  then,  and  it  appeared  that  her  father 
was  in  the  same  state. 

Evidently  the  telling  of  his  story  had  relieved  Dorn. 
The  strain  relaxed  in  his  white  face  and  it  lost  a  little  of 
its  stern  fixity.  He  got  up  and,  opening  his  bag,  he  took 
out  some  papers. 

"Mr.  Anderson,  I'd  like  to  settle  all  this  right  now," 
he  said.  "I  want  it  off  my  mind." 

"Go  ahead,  son,  an'  settle,"  replied  Anderson,  thickly. 
He  heaved  a  big  sigh  and  then  sat  down,  fumbling  for  a 
match  to  light  his  cigar.  When  he  got  it  lighted  he  drew 
in  a  big  breath  and  with  it  manifestly  a  great  draught  of 
consoling  smoke. 

"I  want  to  make  over  the— the  land — in  fact,  all  the 
property — to  you — to  settle  mortgage  and  interest," 
went  on  Dorn,  earnestly,  and  then  paused. 

"All  right.  I  expected  that,"  returned  Anderson,  as  he 
emitted  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"The  only  thing  is — "  here  Dorn  hesitated,  evidently 
with  difficult  speech — "the  property  is  worth  more  than 
the  debt." 

"Sure.     I  know,"  aid  Anderson,  encouragingly. 

"I  promised  our  neighbors  big  money  to  harvest  our 
wheat.  You  remember  you  told  me  to  offer  it.  Well, 
they  left  their  own  wheat  and  barley  fields  to  burn,  and 
they  saved  ours.  And  then  they  harvested  it  and  hauled 
it  to  the  railroad.  ...  I  owe  Andrew  Olsen  fifteen  thou 
sand  dollars  for  himself  and  the  men  who  worked  with 
him.  ...  If  I  could  pay  that — I'd — almost  be  happy.  .  .  . 
Do  you  think  my  property  is  worth  that  much  more  than 
the  debt?" 

"I  think  it  is— just  about,"  replied  Anderson.  "We'll 
mail  the  money  to  Olsen.  .  .  .  Lenore,  write  out  a  check 
to  Andrew  Olsen  for  fifteen  thousand." 

Lenore's  hand  trembled  as  she  did  as  her  father  directed. 

200 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

It  was  the  most  poorly  written  check  she  had  ever  drawn. 
Her  heart  seemed  too  big  for  her  breast  just  then.  How 
cool  and  calm  her  father  was!  Never  had  she  loved  him 
quite  so  well  as  then.  When  she  looked  up  from  her 
task  it  was  to  see  a  change  in  Kurt  Dorn  that  suddenly 
dimmed  her  eyes. 

"There,  send  this  to  Olsen,"  said  Anderson.  "We'll 
run  into  town  in  a  day  or  so  an'  file  the  papers. " 

Lenore  had  to  turn  her  gaze  away  from  Dorn.  She 
heard  him  in  broken,  husky  accents  try  to  express  his 
gratitude. 

' '  Ah-huh !  Sure — sure !"  interrupted  Anderson,  hastily. 
"Now  listen  to  me.  Things  ain't  so  bad  as  they  look.  .  .  . 
For  instance,  we're  goin'  to  fool  the  I.  W.  W.  down  here 
in  the  valley." 

' '  How  can  you  ?    There  are  so  many, ' '  returned  Dorn. 

"You'll  see.     We're  just  waitin'  a  chance." 

"I  saw  hundreds  of  I.  W.  W.  men  between  here  and 
Kilo." 

"Can  you  tell  an  I.  W.  W.  from  any  other  farm-hand?" 
asked  Anderson. 

"Yes,  I  can,"  replied  Dorn,  grimly. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  we  need  you  round  here  powerful 
much,"  said  the  rancher,  dryly.  "Dorn,  I've  got  a  big 
proposition  to  put  up  to  you." 

Lenore,  thrilling  at  her  father's  words,  turned  once  more. 
Dorn  appeared  more  composed. 

"Have  you?"  he  inquired,  in  surprise. 

"Sure.  But  there's  no  hurry  about  tellin'  you.  Sup 
pose  we  put  it  off." 

"I'd  rather  hear  it  now.  My  stay  here  must  be  short. 
I— I—  You  know—" 

"Hum!  Sure  I  know.  .  .  .  Wai  then,  it's  this:  Will 
you  go  in  business  with  me  ?  Want  you  to  work  that  Bend 
wheat-farm  of  yours  for  me — on  half  shares.  .  .  .  More 
particular  I  want  you  to  take  charge  of  'Many  Waters.* 
You  see,  I'm — not  so  spry  as  I  used  to  be.  It's  a  big  job, 

201 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

an'  I've  a  lot  of  confidence  in  you.  You'll  live  here,  of 
course,  an'  run  to  an'  fro  with  one  of  my  cars.  I've  some 
land-development  schemes — an',  to  cut  it  short,  there's 
a  big  place  waitin'  for  you  in  the  Northwest." 

"Mr.  Anderson!"  cried  Dorn,  in  a  kind  of  rapturous 
amaze.  Red  burned  out  the  white  of  his  face.  "That's 
great!  It's  too  great  to  come  true.  You're  good!  .  .  . 
If  I'm  lucky  enough  to  come  back  from  the  war — " 

"Son,  you're  not  goin'  to  war!"  interposed  Anderson. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Dorn,  blankly.  He  stared  as  if  he 
had  not  heard  aright. 

Anderson  calmly  repeated  his  assertion.  He  was 
smiling;  he  looked  kind;  but  underneath  that  showed  the 
will  that  had  made  him  what  he  was. 

"But  I  am!"  flashed  the  young  man,  as  if  he  had  been 
misunderstood. 

"Listen.  You're  like  all  boys — hot-headed  an'  hasty. 
Let  me  talk  a  little,"  resumed  Anderson.  And  he  began 
to  speak  of  the  future  of  the  Northwest.  He  painted  that 
in  the  straight  talk  of  a  farmer  who  knew,  but  what  he 
predicted  seemed  like  a  fairy-tale.  Then  he  passed  to  the 
needs  of  the  government  and  the  armies,  a,nd  lastly  the 
people  of  the  nation.  All  depended  upon  the  farmer! 
Wheat  was  indeed  the  staff  of  life  and  of  victory !  Young 
Dorn  was  one  of  the  farmers  who  could  not  be  spared. 
Patriotism  was  a  noble  thing.  Fighting,  however,  did 
not  alone  constitute  a  duty  and  loyalty  to  the  nation. 
This  was  an  economic  war,  a  war  of  peoples,  and  the  nation 
that  was  the  best  fed  would  last  longest.  Adventure  and 
the  mistaken  romance  of  war  called  indeed  to  all  red- 
blooded  young  Americans.  It  was  good  that  they  did  call. 
But  they  should  not  call  the  young  farmer  from  his  wheat- 
fields. 

"But  I've  been  drafted!"  Dorn  spoke  with  agitation. 
He  seemed  bewildered  by  Anderson's  blunt  eloquence. 
His  intelligence  evidently  accepted  the  elder  man's  argu 
ment,  but  something  instinctive  revolted. 

202 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"There's  exemption,  my  boy.  Easy  in  your  case," 
replied  Anderson. 

"Exemption!"  echoed  Dorn,  and  a  dark  tide  of  blood 

rose  to  his  temples.    "  I  wouldn't — I  couldn't  ask  for  that !" 

"You  don't  need  to,"  said  the  rancher.     "Dorn,  do 

you  recollect  that  Washington  official  who  called  on  you 

some  time  ago?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Dorn,  slowly. 
"Did  he 'say  anythin'  about  exemption?" 
"No.     He  asked  me  if  I  wanted  it,  that's  all." 
"Wai,  you  had  it  right  then.     I  took  it  upon  myself  to 
get  exemption  for  you.     That  government  official  heartily 
approved  of  my  recommendin'  exemption  for  you.     An' 
he  gave  it." 

"Anderson!  You  took — it  upon — yourself — "  gasped 
Dorn,  slowly  rising.  If  he  had  been  white-faced  before, 
he  was  ghastly  now. 

"Sure  I  did.  .  .  .  Good  Lord!  Dorn,  don't  imagine 
I  ever  questioned  your  nerve.  .  .  .  It's  only  you're  not 
needed — or  rather,  you're  needed  more  at  home.  ...  I 
let  my  son  Jim  go  to  war.  That 's  enough  for  one  family ! '  * 
But  Dorn  did  not  grasp  the  significance  of  Anderson's 
reply. 

' '  How  dared  you  ?  What  right  had  you  ? "  he  demanded, 
passionately. 

"No  right  at  all,  lad,"  replied  Anderson.  "I  just 
recommended  it  an'  the  official  approved  it." 

"But  I  refuse!"  cried 'Dorn,  with  ringing  fury.  "I 
won't  accept  exemption." 

"Talk  sense  now,  even  if  you  are  mad,"  returned  Ander 
son,  rising.  "I've  paid  you  a  high  compliment,  young 
man,  an'  offered  you  a  lot.  More  'n  you  see,  I  guess.  .  .  . 
Why  won't  you  accept  exemption?" 

"I'm  going  to  war!"  was  the  grim,  hard  reply. 
"But  you're  needed  here.     You'd  be  more  of  a  soldier 
here.     You  could  do  more  for  your  country  than  if  you 
gave  a,  hundred  lives.     Can't  you  see  that?" 
14  203 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Yes,  I  can,"  assented  Dorn,  as  if  forced. 

"You're  no  fool,  an'  you're  a  loyal  American.  Your 
duty  is  to  stay  home  an'  raise  wheat." 

"I've  a  duty  to  myself,"  returned  Dorn,  darkly. 

"Son,  your  fortune  stares  you  right  in  the  face — here. 
Are  you  goin'  to  turn  from  it?" 

"Yes." 

"You  want  to  get  in  that  war?    You've  got  to  fight?" 

"Yes." 

"  Ah-huh !"  Anderson  threw  up  his  hands  in  surrender. 
"Got  to  kill  some  Germans,  hey?  .  .  .  Why  not  come  out 
to  my  harvest  fields  an*  hog-stick  a  few  of  them  German 
I.W.W.'s?" 

Dorn  had  no  reply  for  that. 

"Wai,  I'm  dog-gone  sorry,"  resumed  Anderson.  "I 
see  it's  a  tough  place  for  you,  though  I  can't  understand. 
You'll  excuse  me  for  mixin'  in  your  affairs.  .  .  .  An* 
now,  considerin'  other  ways  I've  really  helped  you,  I 
hope  you'll  stay  at  my  home  for  a  few  days.  We  all  owe 
you  a  good  deal.  My  family  wants  to  make  up  to  you. 
Will  you  stay?" 

"Thank  you — yes — for  a  few  days,"  replied  Dorn. 

"Good!  That  '11  help  some.  Mebbe,  after  runnin' 
around  'Many  Waters'  with  Le — with  the  girls — you'll 
begin  to  be  reasonable.  I  hope  so." 

"You  think  me  ungrateful!"  exclaimed  Dorn,  shrinking. 

"I  don't  think  nothin',"  replied  Anderson.  "I  turn 
you  over  to  Lenore."  He  laughed  as  he  pronounced 
Dorn's  utter  defeat.  And  his  look  at  Lenore  was  equiva 
lent  to  saying  the  issue  now  depended  upon  her,  and  that 
he  had  absolutely  no  doubt  of  its  outcome.  "Lenore, 
take  him  in  to  meet  mother  an*  the  girls,  an'  entertain 
him.  I've  got  work  to  do." 

Lenore  felt  the  blushes  in  her  cheeks  and  was  glad  Dorn 
did  not  look  at  her.  He  seemed  locked  in  somber  thought. 
As  she  touched  him  and  bade  him  come  he  gave  a  start; 
then  he  followed  her  into  the  hall.  Lenore  closed  her 

204 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

father's  door,  and  the  instant  she  stood  alone  with  Dorn  a 
wonderful  calmness  came  to  her. 

"  Miss  Anderson,  I'd  rather  not — not  meet  your  mother 
and  sisters  to-night,"  said  Dorn.  "I'm  upset.  Won't 
it  be  all  right  to  wait  till  to-morrow?'* 

"Surely.  But  I  think  they've  gone  to  bed,"  replied 
Lenore,  as  she  glanced  into  the  dark  sitting-room.  "So 
they  have.  .  .  .  Come,  let  us  go  into  the  parlor." 

Lenore  turned  on  the  shaded  lights  in  the  beautiful 
room.  How  inexplicable  was  the  feeling  of  being  alone 
with  him,  yet  utterly  free  of  the  torment  that  had  possessed 
her  before!  She  seemed  to  have  divined  an  almost  in 
surmountable  obstacle  in  Dorn's  will.  She  did  not  have 
her  father's  assurance.  It  made  her  tremble  to  realize 
her  responsibility — that  her  father's  earnest  wishes  and 
her  future  of  love  or  woe  depended  entirely  upon  what  she 
said  and  did.  But  she  felt  that  indeed  she  had  become  a 
woman.  And  it  would  take  a  woman's  wit  and  charm  and 
love  to  change  this  tragic  boy. 

"Miss — Anderson,"  he  began,  brokenly,  with  restraint 
let  down,  "your  father — doesn't  understand.  I've  got 
to  go.  ...  And  even  if  I  am  spared — I  couldn't  ever 
comeback.  .  .  .To  work  for  him — all  the  time  in  love  with 
you — I  couldn't  stand  it.  ...  He's  so  good.  I  know  I 
could  care  for  him,  too.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  thought  I  was  bitterly 
resigned — hard — inhuman.  But  all  this  makes  it — so — 
so  much  worse." 

He  sat  down  heavily,  and,  completely  unnerved,  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  His  shoulders  heaved 
and  short,  strangled  sobs  broke  from  him. 

Lenore  had  to  overcome  a  rush  of  tenderness.  It  was 
all  she  could  do  to  keep  from  dropping  to  her  knees  beside 
him  and  slipping  her  arms  around  his  neck.  In  her  agi 
tation  she  could  not  decide  whether  that  would  be 
womanly  or  not;  only,  she  must  make  no  mistakes.  A 
hot,  sweet  flush  went  over  her  when  she  thought  that 
always  as  a  last  resort  she  could  reveal  her  secret  and 

205 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

use  her  power.  What  would  he  do  when  he  discovered 
she  loved  him? 

"Kurt,  I  understand,"  she  said,  softly,  and  put  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder.  And  she  stood  thus  beside  him,  sadly 
troubled,  vaguely  divining  that  her  presence  was  helpful, 
until  he  recovered  his  composure.  As  he  raised  his  head 
and  wiped  tears  from  his  eyes  he  made  no  excuses  for  his 
weakness,  nor  did  he  show  any  shame. 

"Miss  Anderson — "  he  began. 

' '  Please  call  me  Lenore.  I  feel  so — so  stiff  when  you  are 
formal  My  friends  call  me  Lenore,"  she  said. 

"You  mean — you  consider  me  your  friend?"  he  queried. 

"Indeed  I  do,"  she  replied,  smiling. 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  misunderstood  your  asking  me  to 
visit  you,"  he  said.  "I  thank  you.  I'm  proud  and  glad 
that  you  call  me  your  friend.  It  will  be  spendid  to  re 
member — when  I  am  over  there." 

"I  wonder  if  we  could  talk  of  anything  except  trouble 
and  war,"  replied  Lenore,  plaintively.  "If  we  can't, 
then  let's  look  at  the  bright  side." 

"Is  there  a  bright  side?"  he  asked,  with  his  sad  smile. 

"Every  cloud,  you  know.  .  .  .  For  instance,  if  you  go 
to  war — " 

"Not  if.     I  am  going,"  he  interrupted. 

"Oh,  so  you  say/'  returned  Lenore,  softly.  And  she 
felt  deep  in  her  the  inception  of  a  tremendous  feminine 
antagonism.  It  stirred  along  her  pulse.  "Have  your 
own  way,  then.  But  I  say,  if  you  go,  think  how  fine  it 
will  be  for  me  to  get  letters  from  you  at  the  front — and 
to  write  you!" 

"You'd  like  to  hear  from  me?  .  .  .  You  would  answer?" 
he  asked,  breathlessly. 

"Assuredly.  And  I'll  knit  socks  for  you." 

"You're — very  good,"  he  said,  with  strong  feeling. 

Lenore  again  saw  his  eyes  dim.  How  strangely  sen 
sitive  he  was !  If  he  exaggerated  such  a  little  kindness  as 
she  had  suggested,  if  he  responded  to  it  with  such  emotion, 

206 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

what  would  he  do  when  the  great  and  marvelous  truth  of 
her  love  was  flung  in  his  face?  The  very  thought  made 
Lenore  weak. 

"You'll  go  to  training-camp,"  went  on  Lenore,  "and 
because  of  your  wonderful  physique  and  your  intelligence 
you  will  get  a  commission.  Then  you'll  go  to — France." 
Lenore  faltered  a  little  in  her  imagined  prospect.  ' '  You'll 
be  in  the  thick  of  the  great  battles.  You'll  give  and  take. 
You'll  kill  some  of  those — those — Germans.  You'll  be 
wounded  and  you'll  be  promoted.  .  .  .  Then  the  Allies 
will  win.  Uncle  Sam's  grand  army  will  have  saved 
the  world.  .  .  .  Glorious !  .  .  .  You'll  come  back — home 
to  us — to  take  the  place  dad  offered  you.  .  .  .  There ' 
that  is  the  bright  side." 

Indeed,  the  brightness  seemed  reflected  in  Dorn's  face. 

"I  never  dreamed  you  could  be  like  this,"  he  said, 
wonderingly. 

"Like  what?" 

"I  don't  know  just  what  I  mean.  Only  you're  different 
from  my — my  fancies.  Not  cold  or — or  proud." 

"You're  beginning  to  get  acquainted  with  me,  that's 
all.  After  you've  been  here  awhile — " 

"Please  don't  make  it  so  hard  for  me,"  he  interrupted, 
appealingly.  "I  can't  stay." 

"Don't  you  want  to?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  And  I  will  stay  a  couple  of  days.  But  no 
longer.  It  '11  be  hard  enough  to  go  then." 

"Perhaps  I — we'll  make  it  so  hard  for  you  that  you 
can't  go." 

Then  he  gazed  piercingly  at  her,  as  if  realizing  a  will 
opposed  to  his,  a  conviction  not  in  sympathy  with  his. 

"You're  going  to  keep  this  up — this  trying  to  change 
my  mind?" 

"I  surely  am,"  she  replied,  both  wistfully  and  wilfully. 

"Why?  I  should  think  you'd  respect  my  sense  of 
duty." 

"Your  duty  is  more  here  than  at  the  front.  The  govern- 
207 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

ment  man  said  so.     My  father  believes  it.     So  do  I.  ... 
You  have  some  other— other  thing  you  think  duty." 

" 1  hate  Germans !"  he  burst  out,  with  a  dark  and  terrible 
flash. 

"Who  does  not?"  she  flashed  back  at  him,  and  she  rose, 
feeling  as  if  drawn  by  a  powerful  current.  She  realized 
then  that  she  must  be  prepared  any  moment  to  be  over 
whelmed  by  the  inevitable  climax  of  this  meeting.  But 
she  prayed  for  a  little  more  time.  She  fought  her  emotions. 

She  saw  him  tremble.  "Lenore,  I'd  better  run  off  in 
the  night,"  he  said. 

Instinctively,  with  swift,  soft  violence,  she  grasped  his 
hands.  Perhaps  the  moment  had  come.  She  was  not 
afraid,  but  the  suddenness  of  her  extremity  left  her  witless. 

"You  would  not!  .  .  .  That  would  be  unkind — not 
like  you  at  all.  ...  To  run  off  without  giving  me  a 
chance— without  good-by!  .  .  .  Promise  me  you  will  not." 

"I  promise,"  he  ^replied,  wearily,  as  if  nonplussed  by 
her  attitude.  "You  said  you  understood  me.  But  1 
can't  understand  you." 

She  released  his  hands  and  turned  away.  "I  promise- 
that  you  shall  understand — very  soon." 

"You  feel  sorry  for  me.  You  pity  me.  You  think 
I'll  only  be  cannon-fodder  for  the  Germans.  You  want 
to  be  nice,  kind,  sweet  to  me — to  send  me  away  with  better 
thoughts.  .  .  .  Isn't  that  what  you  think?" 

He  was  impatient,  almost  angry.  His  glance  blazed  at 
her.  All  about  him,  his  tragic  face,  his  sadness,  his  defeat, 
his  struggle  to  hold  on  to  his  manliness  and  to  keep  his 
faith  in  "nobler  thoughts— these  challenged  ^Lenore's 
compassion,  her  love,  and  her  woman's  combative  spirit 
to  save  and  to  keep  her  own.  She  quivered  again  on  the 
brink  of  betraying  herself.  And  it  was  panic  alone  that 
held  her  back. 

"Kurt— I  think— presently  I'll  give  you  the  surprise  of 
your  life,"  she  replied,  and  summoned  a  smile. 

How  obtuse  he  was!    How  blind!    Perhaps  the  stress 

208 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

of  his  emotion,  the  terrible  sense  of  his  fate,  left  him  no 
keenness,  no  outward  penetration.  He  answered  her 
smile,  as  if  she  were  a  child  whose  determined  kindness 
made  him  both  happy  and  sad. 

1 '  I  dare  say  you  will, ' '  he  replied.  * '  You  Andersons  are 
full  of  surprises.  .  .  .  But  I  wish  you  would  not  do  any 
more  for  me.  I  am  like  a  dog.  The  kinder  you  are  to 
me  the  more  I  love  you.  .  .  .  How  dreadful  to  go  away 
to  war — to  violence  and  blood  and  death — to  all  that's 
brutalizing — with  my  heart  and  mind  full  of  love  for  a 
noble  girl  like  you! — If  I  come  to  love  you  any  more  I'll 
not  be  a  man." 

To  Lenore  he  looked  very  much  of  a  man,  so  tall  and 
lithe  and  white-faced,  with  his  eyes  of  fire,  his  simplicity, 
and  his  tragic  refusal  of  all  that  was  for  most  men  the  best 
of  life.  Whatever  his  ideal,  it  was  magnificent.  Lenore 
had  her  chance  then,  but  she  was  absolutely  unable  to 
grasp  it.  Her  blood  beat  thick  and  hot.  If  she  could  only 
have  been  sure  of  herself!  Or  was  it  that  she  still  cared 
too  much  for  herself?  The  moment  had  not  come.  And 
in  her  tumult  there  was  a  fleeting  fury  at  Dorn's  blindness, 
at  his  reverence  of  her,  that  he  dare  not  touch  her  hand. 
Did  he  imagine  she  was  stone? 

* '  Let  us  say  good  night, ' '  she  said.  ' '  You  are  worn  out. 
And  I  am — not  just  myself.  To-morrow  we'll  be — 
good  friends.  .  .  .  Father  will  take  you  to  your  room." 

Dorn  pressed  the  hand  she  offered,  and,  saying  good 
night,  he  followed  her  to  the  hall.  Lenore  tapped  on  the 
door  of  her  father's  study,  then  opened  it. 

"Good  night,  dad.  I'm  going  up,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  look  after  Kurt?" 

"Sure.     Come  in,  son,"  replied  her  father. 

Lenore  felt  Dorn's  strange,  intent  gaze  upon  her  as  she 
passed  him.  Lightly  she  ran  up-stairs  and  turned  at  the 
top.  The  hall  was  bright  and  Dorn  stood  full  in  the  light, 
his  face  upturned.  It  still  wore  the  softer  expression  of 
those  last  few  moments.  Lenore  waved  her  hand,  and 

209 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

he  smiled.  The  moment  was  natural.  Youth  to  youth! 
Lenore  felt  it.  She  marveled  that  he  did  not.  A  sweet 
devil  of  wilful  coquetry  possessed  her. 

"Oh,  did  you  say  you  wouldn't  go?"  she  softly  called. 

"I  said  only  good  night."  he  replied. 

"  If  you  don't  go,  then  you  will  never  be  General  Dorn, 
will  you?  What  a  pity!" 

"  I'll  go.  And  then  it  will  be — 'Private  Dorn — missing. 
No  relatives,' "  he  replied. 

That  froze  Lenore.  Her  heart  quaked.  She  gazed 
down  upon  him  with  all  her  soul  in  her  eyes.  She  knew  it 
and  did  not  care.  But  he  could  not  see. 

"Good  night,  Kurt  Dorn,"  she  called,  and  ran  to  her 
room. 

Composure  did  not  come  to  her  until  she  was  ready  for 
bed,  with  the  light  out  and  in  her  old  seat  at  the  window. 
Night  and  silence  and  starlight  always  lent  Lenore  strength. 
She  prayed  to  them  now  and  to  the  spirit  she  knew  dwelt 
beyond  them.  And  then  she  whispered  what  her  intelli 
gence  told  her  was  an  unalterable  fact — Kurt  Dorn  could 
never  be  changed.  But  her  sympathy  and  love  and 
passion,  all  that  was  womanly  emotion,  stormed  at  her 
intelligence  and  refused  to  listen  to  it. 

Nothing  short  of  a  great  shock  would  divert  Dorn  from 
his  tragic  headlong  rush  toward  the  fate  he  believed  un 
alterable.  Lenore  sensed  a  terrible,  sinister  earnest 
ness  in  him.  She  could  not  divine  its  meaning.  But 
it  was  such  a  driving  passion  that  no  man  possessing  it 
and  free  to  the  violence  of  war  could  ever  escape  death. 
Even  if  by  superhuman  strife,  and  the  guidance  of  Provi 
dence,  he  did  escape  death,  he  would  have  lost  something 
as  precious  as  life.  If  Dorn  went  to  war  at  all — if  he 
ever  reached  those  blood-red  trenches,  in  the  thick  of  fire 
and  shriek  and  ferocity — there  to  express  in  horrible  ear 
nestness  what  she  vaguely  felt  yet  could  not  define — then 
so  far  as  she  was  concerned  she  imagined  that  she  would 
not  want  him  to  come  back. 

210 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

That  was  the  strength  of  spirit  that  breathed  out  of  the 
night  and  the  silence  to  her.  Dorn  would  go  to  war  as  no 
ordinary  soldier,  to  obey,  to  fight,  to  do  his  duty;  but 
for  some  strange,  unfathomable  obsession  of  his  own. 
And,  therefore,  if  he  went  at  all  he  was  lost.  War,  in  its 
inexplicable  horror,  killed  the  souls  of  endless  hordes  of 
men.  Therefore,  if  he  went  at  all  she,  too,  was  lost  to  the 
happiness  that  might  have  been  hers.  She  would  never 
love  another  man.  She  could  never  marry.  She  would 
never  have  a  child. 

So  his  soul  and  her  happiness  were  in  the  balance  weighed 
against  a  woman's  power.  It  seemed  to  Lenore  that  she 
felt  hopelessly  unable  to  carry  the  issue  to  victory;  and 
yet,  on  the  other  hand,  a  tumultuous  and  wonderful 
sweetness  of  sensation  called  to  her,  insidiously,  of  the 
infallible  potency  of  love.  What  could  she  do  to  save 
Dorn's  life  and  his  soul?  There  was  only  one  answer  to 
that.  She  would  do  anything.  She  must  make  him  love 
her  to  the  extent  that  he  would  have  no  will  to  carry  out 
this  desperate  intent.  There  was  little  time  to  do  that. 
The  gradual  growth  of  affection  through  intimacy  and 
understanding  was  not  possible  here.  It  must  come  as  a 
flash  of  lightning.  She  must  bewilder  him  with  the  revela 
tion  of  her  love,  and  then  by  all  its  incalculable  power  hold 
him  there. 

It  was  her  father's  wish;  it  would  be  the  salvation  of 
Dorn;  it  meant  all  to  her.  But  if  to  keep  him  there 
would  make  him  a  slacker,  Lenore  swore  she  would 
die  before  lifting  her  lips  to  his.  The  government  would 
rather  he  stayed  to  raise  wheat  than  go  out  and  fight  men. 
Lenore  saw  the  sanity,  the  cardinal  importance  of  that, 
as  her  father  saw  it.  So  from  all  sides  she  was  justified. 
And  sitting  there  in  the  darkness  and  silence,  with  the 
cool  wind  in  her  face,  she  vowed  she  would  be  all 
woman,  all  sweetness,  all  love,  all  passion,  all  that  was 
feminine  and  terrible,  to  keep  Dorn  from  going  to  war. 

231 


CHAPTER  XIX 

EiNORE  awakened  early.  The  morning  seemed 
golden.  Birds  were  singing  at  her  window.  What 
did  that  day  hold  in  store  for  her?  She  pressed  a  hand 
hard  on  her  heart  as  if  to  hold  it  still.  But  her  heart 
went  right  on,  swift,  exultant,  throbbing  with  a  fullness 
that  was  almost  pain. 

Early  as  she  awakened,  it  was,  nevertheless,  late  when 
she  could  direct  her  reluctant  steps  down-stairs.  She  had 
welcomed  every  little  suggestion  and  task  to  delay  the 
facing  of  her  ordeal. 

There  was  merriment  in  the  sitting-room,  and  Dorn's 
laugh  made  her  glad.  The  girls  were  at  him,  and  her 
father's  pleasant,  deep  voice  chimed  in.  Evidently  there 
was  a  controversy  as  to  who  should  have  the  society  of  the 
guest.  They  had  all  been  to  breakfast.  Mrs.  Anderson 
expressed  surprise  at  Lenore's  tardiness,  and  said  she  had 
been  called  twice.  Lenore  had  heard  nothing  except  the 
birds  and  the  music  of  her  thoughts.  She  peeped  into  the 
sitting-room. 

"Didn't  you  bring  me  anything?"  Kathleen  was  in 
quiring  of  Dorn. 

Dorn  was  flushed  and  smiling.  Anderson  stood  beam 
ing  upon  them,  and  Rose  appeared  to  be  inclined  toward 
jealousy. 

"Why — you  see — I  didn't  even  know  Lenore  had  a 
little  sister,"  Dorn  explained. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Kathleen,  evidently  satisfied.  "All 
Lenorry's  beaux  bring  me  things.  But  I  believe  I'm 
going  to  like  you  best." 

Lenore  had  intended  to  say  good  morning.  She  changed 
her  mind,  however,  at  Kathleen's  naive  speech,  and  darted 
back  lest  she  be  seen.  She  felt  the  blood -hot  in  her 

212 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

cheeks.  That  awful,  irrepressible  Kathleen !  If  she  liked 
Dorn  she  would  take  possession  of  him.  And  Kathleen 
was  lovable,  irresistible.  Lenore  had  a  sudden  thought 
that  Kathleen  would  aid  the  good  cause  if  she  could  be 
enlisted.  While  Lenore  ate  her  breakfast  she  listened  to 
the  animated  conversation  in  the  sitting-room.  Presently 
her  father  came  in. 

11  Hello,  Lenore!  Did  you  get  up?"  he  greeted  her, 
cheerily. 

"I  hardly  ever  did,  it  seems.  .  .  .  Dad,  the  day  was 
something  to  face,"  she  said. 

"Ah-huh!  It's  like  getting  up  to  work.  Lenore,  the 
biggest  duty  of  life  is  to  hide  your  troubles.  .  .  .  Dorn 
looks  like  a  human  bein'  this  mornin'.  The  kids  have  won 
him.  I  reckon  he  needs  that  sort  of  cheer.  Let  them  have 
him.  Then  after  a  while  you  fetch  him  out  to  the  wheat- 
field.  Lenore,  our  harvestin'  is  half  done.  Every  day 
I've  expected  some  trick  or  deviltry.  But  it  hasn't  come 
yet."  ' 

"Are  any  of  the  other  ranchers  having  trouble?"  she 
inquired. 

"  I  hear  rumors  of  bad  work.  But  facts  told  by  ranchers 
an'  men  who  were  here  only  yesterday  make  little  of  the 
rumors.  All  that  burnin'  of  wheat  an'  timber,  an'  the 
destruction  of  machines  an'  strikin'  of  farm-hands,  haven't 
hit  Golden  Valley  yet.  We  won't  need  any  militia  here, 
you  can  bet  on  that." 

"Father,  it  won't  do  to  be  over-confident,"  she  said, 
earnestly.  "You  know  you  are  the  mark  for  the  I.  W.  W. 
sabotage.  If  you  are  not  careful — any  moment — " 

Lenore  paused  with  a  shudder. 

"Lass,  I'm  just  like  I  was  in  the  old  rustlin'  days.  An* 
I've  surrounded  myself  with  cowboys  like  Jake  an'  Bill, 
an'  old  hands  who  pack  guns  an'  keep  still,  as  in  the  good 
old  Western  days.  We're  just  waitin'  for  the  I.  W.  W.'s 
to  break  loose." 

"Then  what?"  queried  Lenore. 

213 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Wai,  we'll  chase  that  outfit  so  fast  it  '11  be  lost  in  dust," 
he  replied.  a 

"But  if  you  chase  them  away,  it  '11  only  be  into  another 
state,  where  they'll  make  trouble  for  other  farmers. 
You  don't  do  any  real  good." 

"My  dear,  I  reckon  you've  said  somethin'  strong,"  he 
replied,  soberly,  and  went  out. 

Then  Kathleen  came  bouncing  in.  Her  beautiful  eyes 
were  full  of  mischief  and  excitement.  "Lenorry,  your 
new  beau  has  all  the  others  skinned  to  a  frazzle,"  she 
said. 

For  once  Lenore  did  not  scold  Kathleen,  but  drew  her 
close  and  whispered:  "Do  you  want  to  please  me?  Do 
you  want  me  to  do  everything  for  you?" 

"I  sure  do,"  replied  Kathleen,  with  wonderful  eyes. 

"Then  be  nice,  sweet,  good  to  him.  .  .  .  make  him  love 
you.  .  .  .  Don't  tease  him  about  my  other  beaux.  Think 
how  you  can  make  him  like  '  Many  Waters.' " 

"Will  you  promise — everything?"  whispered  Kathleen, 
solemnly.  Evidently  Lenore 's  promises  were  rare  and 
reliable. 

"Yes.  Cross  my  heart.  There!  And  you  must  not 
tell." 

Kathleen  was  a  precocious  child,  with  all  the  potenti 
alities  of  youth.  She  could  not  divine  Lenore's  motive, 
but  she  sensed  a  new  and  fascinating  mode  of  conduct  for 
herself.  She  seemed  puzzled  a  little  at  Lenore's  earnest 
ness. 

"It's  a  bargain,"  she  said,  soberly,  as  if  she  had  accepted 
no  slight  gauge. 

"Now,  Kathleen,  take  him  all  over  the  gardens,  the 
orchards,  the  corrals  and  barns,"  directed  Lenore.  "Be 
sure  to  show  him  the  horses — my  horses,  especially.  Take 
him  round  the  reservoir — and  everywhere  except  the 
wheat-fields.  I  want  to  take  him  there  myself.  Besides, 
father  does  not  want  you  girls  to  go  out  to  the  harvest." 

Kathleen  nodded  and  ran  back  to  the  sitting-room. 

214 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Lenore  heard  them  all  go  out  together.  Before  she 
finished  breakfast  her  mother  came  in  ag^in. 

"Lenore,  I  like  Mr.  Dorn,"  she  said,  meditatively. 
"He  has  an  old-fashioned  manner  that  reminds  me  of 
my  boy  friends  when  I  was  a  girl.  I  mean  he's  more 
courteous  and  dignified  than  boys  are  nowadays.  A 
splendid-looking  boy,  too.  Only  his  face  is  so  sad.  When 
he  smiles  he  seems  another  person." 

"No  wonder  he's  sad,"  replied  Lenore,  and  briefly 
told  Kurt  Dorn's  story. 

"Ah!"  sighed  Mrs.  Anderson.  "We  have  fallen  upon 
evil  days.  .  .  .  Poor  boy!  .  .  .  Your  father  seems  much 
interested  in  him.  And  you  are  too,  my  daughter?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  replied  Lenore,  softly. 

Two  hours  later  she  heard  Kathleen's  gay  laughter 
and  pattering  feet.  Lenore  took  her  wide-brimmed  hat 
and  went  out  on  the  porch.  Dorn  was  indeed  not  the 
same  somber  young  man  he  had  been. 

"Good  morning,  Kurt,"  said  Lenore,  extending  her 
hand. 

The  instant  he  greeted  her  she  saw  that  the  stiffness, 
the  aloofness  had  gone  from  him.  Kathleen  had  made  him 
feel  at  home.  He  looked  younger.  There  was  color  in 
his  face. 

"Kathleen,  I'll  take  charge  of  Mr.  Dorn  now,  if  you 
will  allow  me  that  pleasure." 

"Lenorry,  I  sure  hate  to  give  him  up.  We  sure  had  a 
fine  time." 

"Did  he  like  'Many  Waters'?" 

"Well,  if  he  didn't  he's  a  grand  fibber, "  replied  Kathleen. 
"But  he  did.  You  can't  fool  me.  I  thought  I'd  never 
get  him  back  to  the  house."  Then,  as  she  tripped  up  the 
Oorch  steps,  she  shook  a  finger  at  Dorn.  "Remember!" 

"I'll  never  forget,"  said  Dorn,  and  he  was  as  earnest 
as  he  was  amiable.  Then,  as  she  disappeared,  he  ex 
claimed  to  Lenore,  "What  an  adorable  little  girl!" 

215 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Do  you  like  Kathleen?" 

"Like  her!"  Dorn  laughed  in  a  way  to  make  light  of 
such  words.  "My  life  has  been  empty.  I  see  that." 

"Come,  we'll  go  out  to  the  wheat-fields,"  said  Lenore. 
"  What  do  you  think  of  *  Many  Waters '  ?  This  is  harvest- 
time.  You  see  'Many  Waters'  at  its  very  best." 

"I  can  hardly  tell  you,"  he  replied.  "All  my  life  I've 
lived  on  my  barren  hills.  I  seem  to  have  come  to  another 
world.  '  Many  W^aters '  is  such  a  ranch  as  I  never  dreamed 
of.  The  orchards,  the  fruit,  the  gardens — and  every 
where  running  water!  It  all  smells  so  fresh  and  sweet. 
And  then  the  green  and  red  and  purple  against  that  back 
ground  of  blazing  gold!  .  .  .  'Many  Waters'  is  verdant 
and  fruitful.  The  Bend  is  desert," 

"Now  that  you've  been  here,  do  you  like  it  better  than 
your  barren  hills?"  asked  Lenore. 

Kurt  hesitated.  "I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  slowly. 
"But  maybe  that  desert  I've  lived  in  accounts  for  much 
I  lack" 

"Would  you  like  to  stay  at  'Many  Waters' — if  you 
weren't  going  to  war?" 

"I  might  prefer  'Many  Waters'  to  anyplace  on  earth. 
It's  a  paradise.  But  I  would  not  choose  to  stay  here." 

"Why?  When  you  return — you  know — my  father 
will  need  you  here.  And  if  anything  should  happen 
to  him  I  will  have  to  run  the  ranch.  Then  I  would 
need  you." 

Dorn  stopped  in  his  tracks  and  gazed  at  her  as  if  there 
were  slight  misgivings  in  his  mind. 

"Lenore,  if  you  owned  this  ranch  would  you  want  me — 
me  for  your  manager?"  he  asked,  bluntly. 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

"You  would?     Knowing  I  was  in  love  with  you?" 

"Well,  I  had  forgotten  that,"  she  replied,  with  a 'little 
laugh.  "It  would  be  rather  embarrassing — and  funny, 
wouldn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  would,"  he  said,  grimly,  and  walked  on  again. 

216 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

He  made  a  gesture  of  keen  discomfiture.  "I  knew  you 
hadn't  taken  me  seriously." 

"I  believed  you,  but  I  could  not  take  you  very  seri 
ously,"  she  murmured. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded,  as  if  stung,  and  his  eyes 
flashed  on  her. 

1  'Because  your  declaration  was  not  accompanied  by  the 
usual — question — that  a  girl  naturally  expects  under  such 
circumstances . ' ' 

"Good  Heaven!  You  say  that?.  .  .  Lenore  Anderson, 
you  think  me  insincere  because  I  did  not  ask  you  to  marry 
me,"  he  asserted,  with  bitter  pathos. 

"No.  I  merely  said  you  were  not — very  serious," 
she  replied.  It  was  fascination  to  torment  him  this  way, 
yet  it  hurt  her,  too.  She  was  playing  on  the  verge  of  a 
precipice,  not  afraid  of  a  misstep,  but  glorying  in  the  pros 
pect  of  a  leap  into  the  abyss.  Something  deep  and  strange 
in  her  bade  her  make  him  show  her  how  much  he  loved 
her,  If  she  drove  him  to  desperation  she  would  reward 
him. 

"I  am  going  to  war,"  he  began,  passionately,  "to 
fight  for  you  and  your  sisters.  .  .  .  I  am  ruined.  .  .  .  The 
only  noble  and  holy  feeling  left  to  me — that  I  can  have  with 
me  in  the  dark  hours — is  my  love  for  you.  If  you  do  not 
believe  that,  I  am  indeed  the  most  miserable  of  beggars ! 
Most  boys  going  to  the  front  leave  many  behind  whom 
they  love.  I  have  no  one  but  you.  .  .  .  Don't  make  me 
a  coward." 

"I  believe  you.     Forgive  me,"  she  said. 

"If  I  had  asked  you  to  marry  me — ine — why,  I'd  have 
been  a  selfish,  egotistical  fool.  You  are  far  above  me. 
And  I  want  you  to  know  I  know  it.  ...  But  even  if  I 
had  not — had  the  blood  I  have — even  if  I  had  been  pros 
perous  instead  of  ruined,  I'd  never  have  asked  you,  un 
less  I  came  back  whole  from  the  war." 

They  had  been  walking  out  the  lane  during  this  con 
versation  and  had  come  close  to  the  wheat-field.  The 

217 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

day  was  hot,  but  pleasant,  the  dry  wind  being  laden  with 
harvest  odors.  The  hum  of  the  machines  was  like  the 
roar  in  a  flour-mill. 

"If  you  go  to  war — and  come  back  whole — ?"  began 
Lenore,  tantalizingly.  She  meant  to  have  no  mercy  upon 
him.  It  was  incredible  how  blind  he  was.  Yet  how  glad 
that  made  her.  He  resembled  his  desert  hills,  barren  of 
many  little  things,  but  rich  in  hidden  strength,  heroic  of 
mold. 

"Then  just  to  add  one  more  to  the  conquests  girls  love 
I'll — I'll  propose  to  you,"  he  declared,  banteringly. 

"Beware,  boy!     I  might  accept  you,"  she  exclaimed. 

His  play  was  short-lived.  He  could  not  be  gay,  even 
tinder  her  influence. 

" Please  don't  jest,"  he  said,  frowning.  "Can't  we  talk 
of  something  besides  love  and  war?" 

"They  seem  to  be  popular  just  now,"  she  replied,  auda 
ciously.  "Anyway,  all's  fair — you  know." 

"No,  it  is  not  fair,"  he  returned,  low-voiced  and  earnest. 
"So  once  for  all  let  me  beg  of  you,  don't  jest.  Oh,  I 
know  you're  sweet.  You're  full  of  so  many  wonderful, 
surprising  words  and  looks.  I  can't  understand  you.  .  .  . 
But  I  beg  of  you,  don't  make  me  a  fool!" 

"Well,  if  you  pay  such  compliments  and  if  I — want 
them — what  then?  You  are  very  original,  very  gallant, 
Mr.  Kurt  Dorn,  and  I — I  rather  like  you." 

"I'll  get  angry  with  you,"  he  threatened. 

"You  couldn't.  .  .  .  I'm  the  only  girl  you're  going  to 
leave  behind — and  if  you  got  angry  I'd  never  write  to 
you." 

It  thrilled  Lenore  and  wrung  her  heart  to  see  how  her 
talk  affected  him.  He  was  in  a  torment.  He  believed  she 
spoke  lightly,  girlishly,  to  tease  him — that  she  was  only  a 
gay-hearted  girl,  fancy-free  and  jus*t  a  little  proud  of  her 
conquest  over  even  him. 

"I  surrender.  Say  what  you  like,"  he  said,  resignedly. 
"I'll  stand  anything — just  to  get  your  letters." 

218 


W 

2s 

Si 

2  5 
o  w 


ga 
la 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"If  you  go  I'll  write  as  often  as  you  want  me  to,"  she 
replied. 

With  that  they  emerged  upon  the  harvest-field.  Ma 
chines  and  engines  dotted  the  golden  slope,  and  wherever 
they  were  located  stood  towering  straw-stacks.  Horses 
and  men  and  wagons  were  strung  out  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  see.  Long  streams  of  chaff  and  dust  and  smoke 
drifted  upward. 

"Lenore,  there's  trouble  in  the  very  air,"  said  Dorn. 
"Look!" 

She  saw  a  crowd  of  men  gathering  round  one  of  the  great 
combine-harvesters.  Some  one  was  yelling. 

"Let's  stay  away  from  trouble,"  replied  Lenore. 
"We've  enough  of  our  own." 

"I'm  going  over  there,"  declared  Dorn.  "Perhaps 
you'd  better  wait  for  me — or  go  back." 

"Well!    You're  the  first  boy  who  ever—" 

"Come  on,"  he  interrupted,  with  grim  humor.  "I'd 
rather  enjoy  your  seeing  me  break  loose — as  I  will  if 
there's  any  I.  W.  W.  trickery." 

Before  they  got  to  the  little  crowd  Lenore  both  heard 
and  saw  her  father.  He  was  in  a  rage  and  not  aware  of 
her  presence.  Jake  and  Bill,  the  cowboys,  hovered  over 
him.  Anderson  strode  to  and  fro,  from  one  side  of  the 
harvester  to  the  other.  Lenore  did  not  recognize  any  of 
the  harvest-hands,  and  even  the  driver  was  new  to  her. 
They  were  not  a  typical  Western  harvest  crew,  that  was 
certain.  She  did  not  like  their  sullen  looks,  and  Dorn's 
muttered  imprecation,  the  moment  he  neared  them, 
confirmed  her  own  opinion. 

Anderson's  foreman  stood  gesticulating,  pale  and  anxious 
of  face. 

"No,  I  don't  hold  you  responsible,"  roared  the  rancher. 
"But  I  want  action.  ...  I  want  to  know  why  this  ma 
chine's  broke  down." 

"It  was  in  perfect  workin'  order,"  declared  the  foreman. 
"I  don't  know  why  it  broke  down." 

15  219 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"That's  the  fourth  machine  in  two  days.  No  accident, 
I  tell  you,"  shouted  Anderson.  Then  he  espied  Dorn 
and  waved  a  grimy  hand.  "  Come  here,  Dorn,"  he  called, 
and  stepped  out  of  the  group  of  dusty  men.  "Some- 
thin'  wrong  here.  This  new  harvester's  broke  down. 
It's  a  McCormack  an'  new  to  us.  But  it  has  worked  great 
an'  I  jest  believe  it's  been  tampered  with.  .  .  .  Do  you 
know  these  McCormack  harvesters?" 

"Yes.     They're  reliable,"  replied  Dorn. 

"Ah-huh!  Wai,  get  your  coat  off  an'  see  what's  been 
done  to  this  one." 

Dorn  took  off  his  coat  and  was  about  to  throw  it  down, 
when  Lenore  held  out  her  hand  for  it. 

"Unhitch  the  horses,"  said  Dorn. 

Anderson  gave  this  order,  which  was  complied  with. 
Then  Dorn  disappeared  around  or  under  the  big  machine. 

"Lenore,  I'll  bet  he  tells  us  somethin'  in  a  minute," 
said  Anderson  to  her.  "These  new  claptraps  are  beyond 
me.  I'm  no  mechanic." 

"Dad,  I  don't  like  the  looks  of  your  harvest-hands," 
whispered  Lenore. 

"Wai,  this  is  a  sample  of  the  lot  I  hired.  No  society 
for  you,  my  lass!" 

"I'm  going  to  stay  now,"  she  replied. 

Dorn  appeared  to  be  raising  a  racket  somewhere  out  of 
sight  under  or  inside  the  huge  harvester.  Rattling  and 
rasping  sounds,  creaks  and  cracks,  attested  to  his  strong 
and  impatiently  seeking  hands. 

Presently  he  appeared.  His  white  shirt  had  been  soiled 
by  dust  and  grease.  There  was  chaff  in  his  fair  hair. 
In  one  grimy  hand  he  held  a  large  monkey-wrench.  What 
struck  Lenore  most  was  the  piercing  intensity  of  his 
gaze  as  he  fixed  it  upon  her  father. 

"Anderson,  I  knew  right  where  to  find  it,"  he  said,  in  a 
sharp,  hard  voice .  ' '  This  monkey-wrench  was  thrown  upon 
the  platform,  carried  to  the  elevator  into  the  thresher.  .  .  . 
Your  machine  is  torn  to  pieces  inside — out  of  commission !" 

220 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Ah-huh!"  exclaimed  Anderson,  as  if  the  truth  was  a 
great  relief. 

"Where'd  that  monkey-wrench  come  from?"  asked  the 
foreman,  aghast.  "  It's  not  ours.  I  don't  buy  that  kind." 

Anderson  made  a  slight,  significant  motion  to  the  cow 
boys.  They  lined  up  beside  him,  and,  like  him,  they 
looked  dangerous. 

"Come  here,  Kurt,"  he  said,  and  then,  putting  Lenore 
before  him,  he  moved  a  few  steps  aside,  out  of  earshot  of 
the  shifty-footed  harvest-hands.  "Say,  you  called  the 
turn  right  off,  didn't  you?" 

"Anderson,  I've  had  a  hard  experience,  all  in  one 
harvest-time,"  replied  Dorn.  "I'll  bet  you  I  can  find 
out  who  threw  this  wrench  into  your  harvester." 

"I  don't  doubt  you,  my  lad.     But  how?" 

"It  had  to  be  thrown  by  one  of  these  men  near  the 
machine.  That  harvester  hasn't  run  twenty  feet  from 
where  the  trick  was  done.  .  .  .  Let  these  men  face  me. 
I'll  find  the  guilty  one." 

"Wait  till  we  get  Lenore  out  of  the  way,"  replied 
Anderson. 

"Boss,  me  an'  Bill  can  answer  fer  thet  outfit  as  it  stands, 
an'  no  risks  fer  nobody,"  put  in  Jake,  coolly. 

Anderson's  reply  was  cut  short  by  a  loud  explosion. 
It  frightened  Lenore.  She  imagined  one  of  the  steam- 
engines  had  blown  up. 

"That  thresher's  on  fire,"  shouted  Dom,  pointing 
toward  a  big  machine  that  was  attached  by  an  endless 
driving-belt  to  an  engine. 

The  workmen,  uttering  yells  and  exclamations,  ran 
toward  the  scene  of  the  new  accident,  leaving  Anderson, 
his  daughter,  and  the  foreman  behind.  Smoke  was 
pouring  out  of  the  big  harvester.  The  harvest-hands 
ran  wildly  around,  shouting  and  calling,  evidently  unable 
to  do  anything.  The  line  of  wagons  full  of  wheat-sheaves 
broke  up;  men  dragged  at  the  plunging  horses.  Then 
flame  followed  the  smoke  out  of  the  thresher. 

221 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"I've  heard  of  threshers  catchin'  fire/'  said  Anderson, 
as  if  dumfounded,  "but  I  never  seen  one.  .  .  .  Now  how 
on  earth  did  that  happen?" 

"Another  trick,  Anderson,"  replied  Dorn.  "Some 
I.  W.  W.  has  stuffed  a  handful  of  matches  into  a  wheat- 
sheaf.  Or  maybe  a  small  bomb!" 

"Ah-huh!  .  .  .  Come  on,  let's  go  over  an*  see  my  money 
burn  up.  ...  Kurt,  I'm  gettin'  some  new  education 
these  days." 

Dorn  appeared  to  be  unable  to  restrain  himself.  He 
hurried  on  ahead  of  the  others.  And  Anderson  whispered 
to  Lenore,  "I'll  bet  somethin's  comin'  off!" 

This  alarmed  Lenore,  yet  it  also  thrilled  her. 

The  threshing-machine  burned  like  a  house  of  cards. 
Farm-hands  came  running  from  all  over  the  field.  But 
nothing,  manifestly,  could  be  done  to  save  the  thresher. 
Anderson,  holding  his  daughter's  arm,  calmly  watched 
it  burn.  There  was  excitement  all  around;  it  had  not 
been  communicated,  however,  to  the  rancher.  He  looked 
thoughtful.  The  foreman  darted  among  the  groups  of 
watchers  and  his  distress  was  very  plain.  Dorn  had 
gotten  out  of  sight.  Lenore  still  held  his  coat  and  won 
dered  what  he  was  doing.  She  was  thoroughly  angry  and 
marveled  at  her  father's  composure.  The  big  thresher 
was  reduced  to  a  blazing,  smoking  hulk  in  short  order. 

Dorn  came  striding  up.  His  face  was  pale  and  his 
mouth  set. 

"Mr.  Anderson,  you've  got  to  make  a  strong  stand — 
and  quick,"  he  said,  deliberately. 

"I  reckon.  An'  I'm  ready,  if  it's  the  right  time," 
replied  the  rancher.  "But  what  can  we  prove?" 

"That's  proof,"  declared  Dorn,  pointing  at  the  ruined 
thresher.  "Do  you  know  all  your  honest  hands?" 

"Yes,  an'  I've  got  enough  to  clean  up  this  outfit  in 
no  time.  We're  only  waitin'." 

"What  for?" 

"Wai,  I  reckon  for  what's  just  come  off." 

222 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Don't  let  them  go  any  farther.  .  .  .  Look  at  these 
fellows.  Can't  you  tell  the  I.  W.  W.'s  from  the  others?" 

"No,  I  can't  unless  I  count  all  the  new  harvest- 
hands  I.  W.  W.'s." 

"Every  one  you  don't  know  here  is  in  with  that  gang," 
declared  Dorn,  and  he  waved  a  swift  hand  at  the  groups. 
His  eyes  swept  piercingly  over,  and  apparently  through, 
the  men  nearest  at  hand. 

At  this  juncture  Jake  and  Bill,  with  two  other  cowboys, 
strode  up  to  Anderson. 

"Another  accident,  boss,"  said  Jake,  sarcastically. 
"Ain't  it  about  time  we  corralled  some  of  this  outfit?" 

Anderson  did  not  reply.  He  had  suddenly  imitated 
Lenore,  who  had  become  solely  bent  upon  Dorn's  look. 
That  indeed  was  cause  for  interest.  It  was  directed  at  a 
member  of  the  nearest  group — a  man  in  rough  garb,  with 
slouch-hat  pulled  over  his  eyes.  As  Lenore  looked  she 
saw  this  man,  suddenly  becoming  aware  of  Dorn's  scru 
tiny,  hastily  turn  and  walk  away. 

"VIold  on!"  called  Dorn,  his  voice  a  ringing  command. 
It  halted  every  moving  person  on  that  part  of  the  field. 
Then  Dorn  actually  bounded  across  the  intervening  space. 

"Come  on,  boys,"  said  Anderson,  "get  in  this.  Dorn's 
spotted  some  one,  an'  now  that's  all  we  want.  .  .  .  Lenore, 
stick  close  behind  me.  Jake,  you  keep  near  her." 

They  moved  hastily  to  back  up  Dorn,  who  had  already 
reached  the  workman  he  had  halted.  Anderson  took 
out  a  whistle  and  blew  such  a  shrill  blast  that  it  deafened 
Lenore,  and  must  have  been  heard  all  over  the  harvest- 
field.  Not  improbably  that  was  a  signal  agreed  upon  be 
tween  Anderson  and  his  men.  Lenore  gathered  that  all 
had  been  in  readiness  for  a  concerted  movement  and 
that  her  father  believed  Dorn's  action  had  brought  the 
climax. 

"Haven't  I  seen  you  before?"  queried  Dorn,  sharply. 

The  man  shook  his  head  and  kept  it  bent  a  little,  and 
then  he  began  to  edge  back  nearer  to  the  stragglers,  who- 

223 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

slowly  closed  into  a  group  behind  him.  He  seemed 
nervous,  shifty. 

"He  can't  speak  English,"  spoke  up  one  of  them, 
gruffly. 

Dorn  looked  aggressive  and  stern.  Suddenly  his 
hand  flashed  out  to  snatch  off  the  slouch-hat  which  hid 
the  fellow's  face.  Amazingly,  a  gray  wig  came  with  it. 
This  man  was  not  old.  He  had  fair  thick  hair. 

For  a  moment  Dorn  gazed  at  the  slouch-hat  and  wig. 
Then  with  a  fierce  action  he  threw  them  down  and  swept 
a  clutching  hand  for  the  man.  The  fellow  dodged  and, 
straightening  up,  he  reached  for  a  gun.  But  Dorn  lunged 
upon  him.  Then  followed  a  hard  grappling  sound  and 
a  hoarse  yell.  Something  bright  glinted  in  the  sun. 
It  made  a  sweeping  circle,  belched  fire  and  smoke.  The 
report  stunned  Lenore.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  clung  to 
her  father.  She  heard  cries,  a  scuffling,  sodden  blows. 

"Jake!  Bill!"  called  Anderson.  "Hold  on!  No  gun 
play  yet!  Dorn's  makin'  hash  out  of  that  fellow.  .  .  . 
But  watch  the  others  sharp!" 

Then  Lenore  looked  again.  Dorn  had  twisted  the  man 
around  and  was  in  the  act  of  stripping  off  the  further 
disguise  of  beard,  disclosing  the  pale  and  convulsed  face 
of  a  comparatively  young  man. 

"Glidden!"  burst  out  Dorn.  His  voice  had  a  terrible 
ring  of  furious  amaze.  His  whole  body  seemed  to  gather 
as  in  a  knot  and  then  to  spring.  The  man  called  Glidden 
went  down  before  that  onslaught,  and  his  gun  went  flying 
aside. 

Three  of  Gliddenys  group  started  for  it.  The  cowboy 
Bill  leaped  forward,  a  gun  in  each  hand.  "Hyar!  .  .  . 
Back!"  he  yelled.  And  then  all  except  the  two  struggling 
principals  grew  rigid. 

Lenore's  heart  was  burning  in  her  throat.  The  move 
ments  of  Dorn  were  too  swift  for  her  sight.  But  Glid 
den  she  saw  handled  as  if  by  a  giant.  Up  and  down  he 
seemed  thrown,  with  bloody  face,  flinging  arms,  while  he 

224 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

uttered  hoarse  bawls.  Dorn's  form  grew  more  distinct. 
It  plunged  and  swung  in  frenzied  energy.  Lenore  heard 
men  running  and  yells  from  all  around.  Her  father  spread 
wide  his  arm  before  her,  so  that  she  had  to  bend  low  to  see. 
He  shouted  a  warning.  Jake  was  holding  a  gun  thrust 
forward. 

"Boss,  he's  goin'  to  kill  Glidden!"  said  the  cowboy, 
in  a  low  tone. 

Anderson's  reply  was  incoherent,  but  its  meaning  was 
plain. 

Lenore's  lips  and  tongue  almost  denied  her  utterance. 
•'Oh!'  .  .  .  Don't  let  him!" 

The  crowd  behind  the  wrestling  couple  swayed  back  and 
forth,  and  men  changed  places  here  and  there.  Bill  strode 
across  the  space,  guns  leveled.  Evidently  this  action  was 
due  to  the  threatening  movements  of  several  workmen 
who  crouched  as  if  to  leap  on  Dorn  as  he  whirled  in  his 
fight  with  Glidden. 

"Wai,  it's  about  time!"  yelled  Anderson,  as  a  num 
ber  of  lean,  rangy  men,  rushing  from  behind,  reached  Bill's 
side,  there  to  present  an  armed  and  threatening  front. 

All  eyes  now  centered  on  Dorn  and  Glidden.  Lenore, 
seeing  clearly  for  the  first  time,  suffered  a  strange,  hot 
paroxysm  of  emotion  never  before  experienced  by  her. 
It  left  her  weak.  It  seemed  to  stultify  the  cry  that  had 
been  trying  to  escape  her.  She  wanted  to  scream  that 
Dorn  must  not  kill  the  man.  Yet  there  was  a  ferocity  in 
her  that  froze  the  cry.  Glidden's  coat  and  blouse  were 
half  torn  off;  blood  covered  him;  he  strained  and  flung 
himself  weakly  in  that  iron  clutch.  He  was  beaten  and 
bent  back.  His  tongue  hung  out,  bloody,  fluttering  with 
strangled  cries.  A  ghastly  face,  appalling  in  its  fear  of 
death! 

Lenore  broke  her  mute  spell  of  mingled  horror  and 
passion. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  let  Dorn  kill  him!"  she  implored. 

"Why  not?"  muttered  Anderson.  "That's  Glidden. 

225 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

He  killed  Dorn's  father — burned  his  wheat — ruined 
him!" 

"Dad — for  my — sake!"  she  cried,  brokenly. 

"Jake,  stop  him!"  yelled  Anderson.     "  Pull  him  off!" 

As  Lenore  saw  it,  with  eyes  again  half  failing  her,  Jake 
could  not  separate  Dorn  from  his  victim. 

"Leggo,  Dorn!"  he  yelled.  "You're  cheatin'  the  gal 
lows!  .  .  .  Hey,  Bill,  he's  a  bull!  ...  Help,  hyar— - 
quick!" 

Lenore  did  not  see  the  resulting  conflict,  but  she  could 
tell  by  something  that  swayed  the  crowd  when  Glidden 
had  been  freed. 

"Hold  up  this  outfit!"  yelled  Anderson  to  his  men. 
"Come  on,  Jake,  drag  him  along."  Jake  appeared,  lead 
ing  the  disheveled  and  wild-eyed  Dorn.  "Son,  you  did 
my  heart  good,  but  there  was  some  around  here  who 
didn't  want  you  to  spill  blood.  An'  that's  well.  For 
I  am  seein'  red.  .  .  .  Jake,  you  take  Dorn  an'  Lenore  a 
piece  toward  the  house,  then  hurry  back." 

Then  Lenore  felt  that  she  had  hold  of  Dorn's  arm  and 
she  was  listening  to  Jake  without  understanding  a  word 
he  said,  while  she  did  hear  her  father's  yell  of  command, 
"Line  up  there,  you  I.  W.  W.'s!" 

Jake  walked  so  swiftly  that  Lenore  had  to  run  to  keep 
up.  Dorn  stumbled.  He  spoke  incoherently.  He  tried 
to  stop.  At  this  Lenore  clasped  his  arm  and  cried,  "Oh, 
Kurt,  come  home  with  me!" 

They  hurried  down  the  slope.  Lenore  kept  looking  back. 
The  crowd  appeared  bunched  now,  with  little  motion. 
That  relieved  her.  There  was  no  more  fighting. 

Presently  Dorn  appeared  to  go  more  willingly.  He  had 
relaxed.  "Let  go,  Jake,"  he  said.  "I'm—all  right- 
now.  That  arm  hurts." 

"Wai,  you'll  excuse  me,  Dorn,  for  handlin'  you  rough. 
.  .  .  Mebbe  you  don't  remember  punchin'  me  one  when 
I  got  between  you  an'  Glidden?" 

"Did  !?...!  couldn't  see,  Jake,"  said  Dorn.  His 
226 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

voice  was  weak  and  had  a  spent  ring  of  passion  in  it. 
He  did  not  look  at  Lenore,  but  kept  his  face  turned  toward 
the  cowboy. 

"I  reckon  this  's  fur  enough, "  rejoined  Jake,  halting  and 
looking  back.  "No  one  comin'.  An'  there'll  be  hell  to 
pay  out  there.  You  go  on  to  the  house  with  Miss  Lenore. 
.  .  .  Will  you?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Dorn. 

"Rustle  along,  then.  .  .  .  An*  you,  Miss  Lenore,  don't 
you  worry  none  about  us." 

Lenore  nodded  and,  holding  Dom's  arm  closely,  she 
walked  as  fast  as  she  could  down  the  lane. 

"I — I  kept  your  coat,"  she  said,  "though  I  never 
thought  of  it — till  just  now." 

She  was  trembling  all  over,  hot  and  cold  by  turns,  afraid 
to  look  up  at  him,  yet  immensely  proud  of  him,  with  a 
strange,  sickening  dread.  He  walked  rather  dejectedly 
now,  or  else  bent  somewhat  from  weakness.  She  stole 
a  quick  glance  at  his  face.  It  was  white  as  a  sheet. 
Suddenly  she  felt  something  wet  and  warm  trickle  from 
his  arm  down  into  her  hand.  Blood !  She  shuddered,  but 
did  not  lose  her  hold.  After  a  faintish  instant  there  came 
a  change  in  her. 

"Are  you — hurt?"  she  asked. 

"I  guess — not.  I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"But  the— the  blood,"  she  faltered. 

He  held  up  his  hands.  His  knuckles  were  bloody  and 
it  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  from  injury  to  them  or 
not.  But  his  left  forearm  was  badly  cut. 

"The  gun  cut  me.  .  .  .  And  he  bit  me,  too,"  said  Dorn. 
"  I'm  sorry  you  were  there.  .  .  .  What  a  beastly  spectacle 
for  you!" 

"Never  mind  me,"  she  murmured.  "I'm  all  right 
now!.  .  .  .  But,  oh!—" 

She  broke  off  eloquently. 

"Was  it  you  who  had  the  cowboys  pull  me  off  him? 
Jake  said,  as  he  broke  me  loose,  Tor  Miss  Lenore's  sake!'  " 

227 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

''It  was  dad  who  sent  them.     But  I  begged  him  to." 

"That  was  Glidden,  the  I.  W.  W.  agitator  and  German 
agent.  .  .  .  He — just  the  same  as  murdered  my  father. 
.  .  .  He  burned  my  wheat — lost  my  all!" 

"Yes,  I — I  know,  Kurt,"  whispered  Lenore. 

"I  meant  to  kill  him!" 

"That  was  easy  to  tell.  ...  Oh,  thank  God,  you  did 
not!  .  .  .  Come,  don't  let  us  stop."  She  could  not  face 
the  piercing,  gloomy  eyes  that  went  through  her. 

"Why  should  you  care?  .  .  .  Some  one  will  have  to 
kill  Glidden." 

"Oh,  do  not  talk  so,"  she  implored.  "Surely,  now 
you're  glad  you  did  not?" 

"I  don't  understand  myself.  But  I'm  certainly  sorry 
you  were  there.  .  .  .  There's  a  beast  in  men — in  me !  .  .  . 
I  had  a  gun  in  my  pocket.  But  do  you  think  I'd  have 
used  it?  ...  I  wanted  to  feel  his  flesh  tear,  his  bones 
break,  his  blood  spurt — " 

"Kurt!" 

"Yes!  .  .  .  That  was  the  Hun  in  me!"  he  declared,  in 
sudden  bitter  passion. 

"Oh,  my  friend,  do  not  talk  so!"  she  cried.  "You 
make  me —  Oh,  there  is  no  Hun  in  you!" 

"Yes,  that's  what  ails  me!" 

"There  is  not!"  she  flashed  back,  roused  to  passion. 
"You  had  been  made  desperate.  You  acted  as  any 
wronged  man!  You  fought.  He  tried  to  kill  you.  I 
saw  the  gun.  No  one  could  blame  you.  ...  I  had  my 
own  reason  for  begging  dad  to  keep  you  from  killing  him — 
a  selfish  woman's  reason!  .  .  .  But  I  tell  you  I  was  so 
furious — so  wrought  up — that  if  it  had  been  any  man  but 
you — he  should  have  killed  him!" 

"Lenore,  you're  beyond  my  understanding,"  replied 
Dorn,  with  emotion.  "But  I  thank  you — for  excusing 
me — for  standing  up  for  me." 

"It  was  nothing.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  you  bleed !  .  .  .  Doesn't 
that  hurt?" 

228 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"I've  no  pain — no  feeling  at  all — except  a  sort  of  dying 
down  in  me  of  what  must  have  been  hell." 

They  reached  the  house  and  went  in.  No  one  was  there, 
which  fact  relieved  Lenore. 

"I'm  glad  mother  and  the  girls  won't  see  you,"  she 
said,  hurriedly.  "Go  up  to  your  room.  I'll  bring  band 
ages." 

He  complied  without  any  comment.  Lenore  searched 
for  what  she  needed  to  treat  a  wound  and  ran  up-stairs. 
Dorn  was  sitting  on  a  chair  in  his  room,  holding  is  arm, 
from  which  blood  dripped  to  the  floor.  He  smiled  at  her. 

"You  would  be  a  pretty  Red  Cross  nurse,"  he  said. 

Lenore  placed  a  bowl  of  water  on  the  floor  and,  kneeling 
beside  Dorn,  took  his  arm  and  began  to  bathe  it.  He 
winced.  The  blood  covered  her  fingers. 

"My  blood  on  your  hands!"  he  exclaimed,  morbidly. 
"German  blood!" 

"Kurt,  you're  out  of  your  head,"  retorted  Lenore,  hotly. 
"If  you  dare  to  say  that  again  I'll — "  She  broke  off. 

"What  will  you  do?" 

Lenore  faltered.  What  would  she  do?  A  revelation 
must  come,  sooner  or  later,  and  the  strain  had  begun  to 
wear  upon  her.  She  was  stirred  to  her  depths,  and  in 
stincts  there  were  leaping.  No  sweet,  gentle,  kindly 
sympathy  would  avail  with  this  tragic  youth.  He  must 
be  carried  by  storm.  'Something  of  the  violence  he  had 
shown  with  Glidden  seemed  necessary  to  make  him  for 
get  himself.  All  his  whole  soul  must  be  set  in  one  direc 
tion.  He  could  not  see  that  she  loved  him,  when  she  had 
looked  it,  acted  it,  almost  spoken  it.  His  blindness  was 
not  to  be  endured. 

"Kurt  Dorn,  don't  dare  to — to  say  that  again!" 

She  ceased  bathing  his  arm,  and  looked  up  at  him  sud 
denly  quite  pale. 

"I  apologize.  I  am  only  bitter,"  he  said.  "Don't 
mind  what  I  say.  .  .  .  It's  so  good  of  you — to  do  this." 

Then  in  silence  Lenore  dressed  his  wound,  and  if  her 

229 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

heart  did  beat  unwontedly,  her  fingers  were  steady  and 
deft.  He  thanked  her,  with  moody  eyes  seeing  far  be 
yond  her. 

"When  I  lie— over  there— with— " 

"If  you  go!"  she  interrupted.  He  was  indeed  hopeless. 
"I  advise  you  to  rest  a  little." 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  becomes  of  Glidden,"  he  said. 

"So  should  I.     That  worries  me." 

*' Weren't  there  a  lot  of  cowboys  with  guns?" 

*'So  many  that  there's  no  need  for  you  to  go  out — and 
Start  another  fight." 

"I  did  start  it,  didn't  I?" 

"You  surely  did."  She  left  him  then,  turning  in  the 
doorway  to  ask  him  please  to  be  quiet  and  let  the  day  go 
by  without  seeking  those  excited  men  again.  He  smiled, 
but  he  did  not  promise. 

For  Lenore  the  time  dragged  between  dread  and  sus 
pense.  From  her  window  she  saw  a  motley  crowd  pass 
down  the  lane  to  the  main  road.  No  harvesters  were 
working.  At  the  noon  meal  only  her  mother  and  the 
girls  were  present.  Word  had  come  that  the  I.  W.  W.  men 
were  being  driven  from  "Many  Waters."  Mrs.  Anderson 
worried,  and  Lenore's  sisters  for  once  were  quiet.  All 
afternoon  the  house  was  lifeless.  No  one  came  or  left. 
Lenore  listened  to  every  little  sound.  It  relieved  her 
that  Dorn  had  remained  in  his  room.  Her  hope  was  that 
the  threatened  trouble  had  been  averted,  but  something 
told  her  that  the  worst  was  yet  to  come. 

It  was  nearly  supper-time  when  she  heard  the  men  re 
turning.  They  came  in  a  body,  noisy  and  loitering,  as  if 
reluctant  to  break  away  from  one  another.  She  heard 
the  horses  tramp  into  the  barns  and  the  loud  voices  of 
drivers. 

When  she  went  down-stairs  she  encountered  her  father. 
He  looked  impressive,  triumphant !  His  effort  at  evasion 
did  not  deceive  Lenore.  But  she  realized  at  once  that 
in  this  instance  she  could  not  get  any  news  from  him. 

230 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

He  said  everything  was  all  right  and  that  I.  W.  W.  men 
were  to  be  deported  from  Washington.  But  he  did  not 
want  any  supper,  and  he  had  a  low-voiced,  significant 
interview  with  Dorn.  Lenore  longed  to  know  what  was 
pending.  Dora's  voice,  when  he  said  at  his  door,"  Ander 
son,  I'll  go!"  was  ringing,  hard,  and  deadly.  It  frightened 
Lenore.  Go  where?  What  were  they  going  to  do? 
Lenore  thought  of  the  vigilantes  her  father  had  organized. 
Then  she  looked  around  for  Jake,  but  could  not  see  him. 

Supper-time  was  an  ordeal.  Dorn  ate  a  little;  then 
excusing  himself,  he  went  back  to  his  room.  Lenore  got 
through  the  meal  somehow,  and,  going  outside,  she  en 
countered  Jake.  The  moment  she  questioned  him  she 
knew  something  extraordinary  had  taken  place  or  was 
about  to  take  place.  She  coaxed  and  entreated.  For 
once  Jake  was  hard  to  manage.  But  the  more  excuses  he 
made,  the  more  he  evaded  her,  the  greater  became  Lenore's 
need  to  know.  And  at  last  she  wore  the  cowboy  out.  He 
could  not  resist  her  tears,  which  began  to  flow  in  spite 
of  her. 

"See  hyar,  Miss  Lenore,  I  reckon  you  care  a  heap  fer 
young  Dorn — beggin'  your  pardon?"  queried  Jake. 

"Care  for  him!  .  .  .  Jake,  I  love  him." 

"Then  take  a  hunch  from  me  an'  keep  him  home — with 
you — to-night." 

"Does  father  want  Kurt  Dorn  to  go — wherever  he's 
going?" 

"Wai,  I  should  smile!  Your  dad  likes  the  way  Dorn 
handles  I.  W.  W.'s,"  replied  Jake,  significantly. 

"Vigilantes!"  whispered  Lenore. 


CHAPTER  XX 

1  ENORE  waited  for  Kurt,  and  stood  half  concealed 
JL/  behind  the  curtains.  It  had  dawned  upon  her  that 
she  had  an  ordeal  at  hand.  Her  heart  palpitated.  She 
heard  his  quick  step  on  the  stairs.  She  called  before  she 
showed  herself. 

"Hello!  .  .  .  Oh,  but  you  startled  me!"  he  exclaimed. 
He  had  been  surprised,  too,  at  the  abrupt  meeting.  Cer 
tainly  he  had  not  been  thinking  of  her.  His  pale,  deter 
mined  face  attested  to  stern  and  excitable  thought. 

He  halted  before  her. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  asked  Lenore. 

"To  see  your  father." 

"What  about?" 

"It's  rather  important,"  he  replied,  with  hesitation. 

"Will  it  take  long?" 

He  showed  embarrassment.  "I —  He —  We'll  be 
occupied  'most  all  evening." 

"Indeed!  .  .  .  Very  well.  If  you'd  rather  be — oc 
cupied — than  spend  the  evening  with  me !' '  Lenore  turned 
away,  affecting  a  disdainful  and  hurt  manner. 

"Lenore,  it's  not  that,"  he  burst  out.  "I— I'd  rather 
spend  an  evening  with  you  than  anybody  else — or  do 
anything." 

"That's  very  easy  to  say,  Mr.  Dorn,"  she  returned, 
lightly. 

"But  it's  true,"  he  protested. 

"Come  out  of  the  hall.  Father  will  hear  us,"  she  said, 
and  led  him  into  the  room.  It  was  not  so  light  in  there, 
but  what  light  there  was  fell  upon  his  face  and  left  hers 
in  shadow. 

"I've  made  an — an  appointment  for  to-night,"  he 
declared,  with  difficulty. 

232 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Can't  you  break  it?"  she  asked. 

"No.  That  would  lay  me  open  to — to  cowardice — 
perhaps  your  father's  displeasure." 

"Kurt  Dorn,  it's  brave  to  give  up  some  things!  .  .  . 
And  if  you  go  you'll  incur  my  displeasure."  g 

"Go!"  he  ejaculated,  staring  at  her. 

"Oh,  I  know!  .  .  .  And  I'm — well,  not  flattered  to  see 
you'd  rather  go  hang  I.  W.  W.'s  than  stay  here  with  me." 
Lenore  did  not  feel  the  assurance  and  composure  with 
which  she  spoke.  She  was  struggling  with  her  own  feel 
ings.  She  believed  that  just  as  soon  as  she  and  Kurt 
understood  each  other — faced  each  other  without  any 
dissimulation — then  she  would  feel  free  and  strong.  If 
only  she  could  put  the  situation  on  a  sincere  footing! 
She  must  work  for  that.  Her  difficulty  was  with  a  sense 
of  falsity.  There  was  no  time  to  plan.  She  must  change 
his  mind. 

Her  words  had  made  him  start. 

"Then  you  know?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course." 

"I'm  sorry  for  that,"  he  replied,  soberly,  as  he  brushed 
a  hand  up  through  his  wet  hair. 

"But  you  will  stay  home?" 

"No,"  he  returned,  shortly,  and  he  looked  hard. 

"Kurt,  I  don't  want  you  mixed  up  with  any  lynching- 
bees,"  she  said,  earnestly. 

"I'm  a  citizen  of  Washington.  I'll  join  the  vigilantes. 
I'm  American.  I've  been  ruined  by  these  1".  W.  W.'s.  No 
man  in  the  West  has  lost  so  much !  Father — home — land 
— my  great  harvest  of  wheat!  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  I  go?" 

"There's  no  reason  except — me"  she  replied,  rather 
unsteadily. 

He  drew  himself  up,  with  a  deep  breath,  as  if  fortify 
ing  himself.  "That's  a  mighty  good  reason.  .  .  .  But 
you  will  be  kinder  if  you  withdraw  your  objections." 

"Can't  you  conceive  of  any  reason  why  I — I  beg  you 
not  to  go?" 

233 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"I  can't,"  he  replied,  staring  at  her.  It  seemed  that 
every  moment  he  spent  in  her  presence  increased  her 
effect  upon  him.  Lenore  felt  this,  and  that  buoyed  up 
her  failing  courage. 

"Kurt,  you've  made  a  very  distressing — a  terrible  and 
horrible  blunder,"  she  said,  with  a  desperation  that  must 
have  seemed  something  else  to  him. 

"My  heavens!  What  have  I  done?''  he  gasped,  his 
face  growing  paler.  How  ready  he  was  to  see  more  catas 
trophe  !  It  warmed  her  heart  and  strengthened  her  nerve. 

The  moment  had  come.  Even  if  she  dicf  lose  her  power 
of  speech  she  still  could  show  him  what  his  blunder  was. 
Nothing  in  all  her  life  had  ever  been  a  hundredth  part  as 
hard  as  this.  Yet,  as  the  words  formed,  her  whole  heart 
seemed  to  be  behind  them,  forcing  them  out.  If  only  he 
did  not  misunderstand ! 

Then  she  looked  directly  at  him  and  tried  to  speak 
Her  first  attempt  was  inarticulate,  her  second  was  a  whis 
per, '"Didn't  you  ever — think  I — I  might  care  for  you?'' 

It  was  as  if  a  shock  went  over  him,  leaving  him  trem 
bling.  But  he  did  not  look  as  amazed  as  incredulous. 
"No,  I  certainly  never  did,"  he  said. 

"Well — that's  your  blunder — for  I — I  do.  You — 
you  never — never — asked  me." 

"You  do  what — care  for  me?  .  .  .  What  on  earth  do 
you  mean  by  that?" 

Lenore  was  fighting  many  emotions  now,  the  one  most 
poignant  being  a  wild  desire  to  escape,  which  battled  with 
an  equally  maddening  one  to  hide  her  face  on  his  breast. 
Yet  she  could  see  how  white  he  had  grown — how  different. 
His  hands  worked  convulsively  and  his  eyes  pierced  her 
very  soul. 

"What  should  a  girl  mean — telling  she  cared?" 

"I  don't  know.  Girls  are  beyond  me,"  he  replied, 
stubbornly. 

"Indeed  that's  true.  I've  felt  so  far  beyond  you — I 
had  to  come  to  this." 

234 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Lenore,"  he  burst  out,  hoarsely,  "you  talk  in  riddles! 
You've  been  so  strange,  yet  so  fine,  so  sweet!  And  now 
you  say  you  care  for  me !  .  .  .  Care?  .  .  .  What  does  that 
mean?  A  word  can  drive  me  mad.  But  I  never  dared  to 
hope.  I  love  you — love  you — love  you — my  God! 
you're  all  I've  left  to  love.  I — " 

"Do  you  think  you've  a  monopoly  on  all  the  love  in 
the  world?"  interrupted  Lenore,  coming  to  her  real  self. 
His  impassioned  declaration  was  all  she  needed.  Her 
ordeal  was  over. 

It  seemed  as  if  he  could  not  believe  his  ears  or 
eyes. 

" Monopoly!  World!"  he  echoed.  "Of  course  I  don't. 
But—" 

1 '  Kurt,  I  love  you  just  as  much  as — as  you  love  me.  .  .  . 
So  there!" 

Lenore  had  time  for  one  look  at  his  face  before  he 
enveloped  her.  What  a  relief  to  hide  her  own!  It  was 
pressed  to  his  breast  very  closely.  Her  eyes  shut,  and 
she  felt  hot  tears  under  the  lids.  All  before  her  darkened 
sight  seemed  confusion,  whirling  chaos.  It  seemed  that 
she  could  not  breathe  and,  strangely,  did  not  need  to. 
How  unutterably  happy  she  felt!  That  was  an  age-long 
moment — wonderful  for  her  own  relief  and  gladness — 
full  of  changing  emotions.  Presently  Kurt  appeared  to 
be  coming  to  some  semblance  of  rationality.  He  released 
her  from  that  crushing  embrace,  but  still  kept  an  arm 
around  her  while  he  held  her  off  and  looked  at  her. 

"Lenore,  will  you  kiss  me?"  he  whispered. 

She  could  have  cried  out  in  sheer  delight  at  the  won 
der  of  that  whisper  in  her  ear.  It  had  been  she  who  had 
changed  the  world  for  Kurt  Dorn. 

"Yes — presently,"  she  replied,  with  a  tremulous  little 
laugh.  "Wait  till— I  get  my  breath—" 

"I  was  beside  myself — am  so  yet, "  he  replied,  low  voiced 
as  if  in  awe.  "I've  been  lifted  to  heaven.  .  .  .  It  cannot 
be  true.  I  believe,  yet  I'll  not  be  sure  till  you  kiss  me.  .  .  . 
I  16  235 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

You — Lenore  Anderson,  the  girl  of  my  dreams!  Do  you 
love  me — is  it  true?" 

"Yes,  Kurt,  indeed  I  do — very  dearly,"  she  replied, 
and  turned  to  look  up  into  his  face.  It  was  transfigured.. 
Lenore's  heart  swelled  as  a  deep  and  profound  emotion, 
waved  over  her. 

"Please  kiss  me — then." 

She  lifted  her  face,  flushing  scarlet.  Their  lips  met. 
Then  with  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  and  her  hands  closely 
held  she  answered  the  thousand  and  one  questions  of  a 
bewildered  and  exalted  lover  who  could  not  realize  the 
truth.  Lenore  laughed  at  him  and  eloquently  furnished 
proof  of  her  own  obsession,  and  told  him  how  and  why 
and  when  it  all  came  about. 

Not  for  hours  did  Kurt  come  back  to  actualities.  "I 
forgot  about  the  vigilantes,"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly. 
"It's  too  late  now.  .  .  .  How  the  time  has  flown!  .  .  . 
Oh,  Lenore,  thought  of  other  things  breaks  in,  alas!" 

He  kissed  her  hand  and  got  up.  Another  change  was 
coming  over  him.  Lenore  had  long  expected  the  moment 
when  realization  would  claim  his  attention.  She  was 
prepared. 

"Yes,  you  forgot  your  appointment  with  dad  and  the 
vigilantes.  You've  missed  some  excitement  and  violence. '  * 

His  face  had  grown  white  again — -grave  now  and 
troubled.  "May  I  speak  to  your  father?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  "she  replied. 

"If  I  come  back  from  the  war — well — not  crippled — 
will  you  promise  to  marry  me?" 

"Kurt,  I  promise  now." 

That  seemed  to  shake  him.  "But,  Lenore,  it  is  not 
fair  to  you.  I  don't  believe  a  soldier  should  bind  a 
girl  by  marriage  or  engagement  before  he  goes  to  war. 
She  should  be  free.  ...  I  want  you  to  be  free." 

"That's  for  you  to  say,"  she  replied,  softly.  "But  for 
my  part,  I  don't  want  to  be  free — if  you  go  away  to  war." 

"If!  ...  I'm  going,"  he  said,  with  a  start.  "You 

236 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

don't  want  to  be  free?  Lenore,  would  you  be  engaged  to 
me?" 

"My  dear  boy,  of  course  I  would  ...  It  seems  I  am, 
doesn't  it?"  she  replied,  with  one  of  her  deep,  low  laughs. 

He  gazed  at  her,  fascinated,  worked  upon  by  over 
whelming  emotions .  * '  Would  you  marry  me — before  I  go  ? " 

"Yes,  "she  flashed. 

He  bent  and  bowed  then  under  the  storm.  Stumbling 
to  her,  almost  on  his  knees,  he  brokenly  expressed  his 
gratitude,  his  wonder,  his  passion,  and  the  terrible  temp 
tation  that  he  must  resist,  which  she  must  help  him  to 
resist. 

"Kurt,  I  love  you.  I  will  see  things  through  your  eyes, 
if  I  must.  I  want  to  be  a  comfort  to  you,  not  a  source  of 
sorrow." 

"But,  Lenore,  what  comfort  can  I  find?  .  .  .  To  leave 
you  now  is  going  to  be  horrible!  .  .  .  To  part  from  you 
now — I  don't  see  how  I  can." 

Then  Lenore  dared  to  broach  the  subject  so  delicate,  so 
momentous. 

"You  need  not  part  from  me.  My  father  has  asked 
me  to  try  to  keep  you  home.  He  secured  exemption  for 
you.  You  are  more  needed  here  than  at  the  front. 
You  can  feed  many  soldiers.  You  would  be  doing  your 
duty — with  honor!  .  .  .  You  would  be  a  soldier.  The 
government  is  going  to  draft  young  men  for  farm  duty. 
Why  not  you?  There  are  many  good  reasons  why  you 
would  be  better  than  most  young  men.  Because  you 
know  wheat.  And  wheat  is  to  become  the  most  im 
portant  thing  in  the  world.  No  one  misjudges  your 
loyalty.  .  .  .  And  surely  you  see  that  the  best  service  to 
your  country  is  what  you  can  do  best." 

He  sat  down  beside  her,  with  serious  frown  and  somber 
eyes.  "Lenore,  are  you  asking  me  not  to  go  to  war?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  she  replied.  "I  have  thought  it  all  over. 
I've  given  up  my  brother.  I'd  not  ask  you  to  stay  home 
if  you  were  needed  at  the  front  as  much  as  here.  That 

237 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

question  I  have  had  out  with  my  conscience.  .  .  .  Kurt, 
don't  think  me  a  silly,  sentimental  girl.  Events  of  late 
have  made  me  a  woman." 

He  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  "That's  the  most 
amazing  of  all — you — Lenore  Anderson,  my  American 
girl — asking  me  not  to  go  to  war." 

"But,  dear,  it  is  not  so  amazing.  It's  reasonable. 
Your  peculiar  point  of  view  makes  it  look  different.  I 
am  no  weak,  timid,  love-sick  girl  afraid  to  let  you  go !  ... 
I've  given  you  good,  honorable,  patriotic  reasons  for  your 
exemption  from  draft.  Can  you  see  that?" 

"Yes.  I  grant  all  your  claims.  I  know  wheat  well 
enough  to  tell  you  that  if  vastly  more  wheat-raising  is 
not  done  the  world  will  starve.  That  would  hold  good  for 
the  United  States  in  forty  years  without  war." 

"Then  if  you  see  my  point  why  are  you  opposed  to  it?" 
she  asked. 

"Because  I  am  Kurt  Dorn,"  he  replied,  bitterly. 

His  tone,  his  gloom  made  her  shiver.  It  would  take 
all  her  intelligence  and  wit  and  reason  to  understand  him, 
and  vastly  more  than  that  to  change  him.  She  thought 
earnestly.  This  was  to  be  an  ordeal  profoundly  more 
difficult  than  the  confession  of  her  love.  It  was  indeed  a 
crisis  dwarfing  the  other  she  had  met.  She  sensed  in  him 
a  remarkably  strange  attitude  toward  this  war,  compared 
with  that  of  her  brother  or  other  boys  she  knew  who  had 
gone. 

"Because  you  are  Kurt  Dorn,"  she  said,  thoughtfully. 
"  It's  in  the  name,  then.  .  .  .  But  I  think  it  a  pretty  name 
— a  good  name.  Have  I  not  consented  to  accept  it  as 
mine — for  life?" 

He  could  not  answer  that.  Blindly  he  reached  out  with 
a  shaking  hand,  to  find  hers,  to  hold  it  close.  Lenore  felt 
the  tumult  in  him.  She  was  shocked.  A  great  tenderness, 
sweet  and  motherly,  flooded  over  her. 

"Dearest,  in  this  dark  hour — that  was  so  bright  a  little 
while  ago — you  must  not  keep  anything  from  me,"  she 

238 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

replied.  "I  will  be  true  to  you.  I  will  crush  my  selfish 
hopes.  I  will  be  your  mother.  .  .  .  Tell  me  why  you 
must  go  to  war  because  you  are  Kurt  Dorn." 

"My  father  was  German.  He  hated  this  country — 
yours  and  mine.  He  plotted  with  the  I.  W.  W.  He 
hated  your  father  and  wanted  to  destroy  him.  .  .  .  Before 
he  died  he  realized  his  crime.  For  so  I  take  the  few  words 
he  spoke  to  Jerry.  But  all  the  same  he  was  a  traitor  to 
my  country.  I  bear  his  name.  I  have  German  in  me.  .  .  . 
And  by  God  I'm  going  to  pay !" 

His  deep,  passionate  tones  struck  into  Lenore's  heart. 
She  fought  with  a  rising  terror.  She  was  beginning  to 
understand  him.  How  helpless  she  felt — how  she  prayed 
for  inspiration — for  wisdom! 

"Pay!  .  .  .  How?"  she  asked. 

"In  the  only  way  possible.  I'll  see  that  a  Dorn  goes 
to  war — who  will  show  his  American  blood — who  will 
fight  and  kill— and  be  killed !" 

His  passion,  then,  was  more  than  patriotism.  It  had 
its  springs  in  the  very  core  of  his  being.  He  had,  it  seemed, 
a  debt  that  he  must  pay.  But  there  was  more  than  this 
in  his  grim  determination.  And  Lenore  divined  that  it 
lay  hidden  in  his  bitter  reference  to  his  German  blood. 
He  hated  that — doubted  himself  because  of  it.  She  real 
ized  now  that  to  keep  him  from  going  to  war  would  be  to 
make  him  doubt  his  manhood  and  eventually  to  despise 
himself.  No  longer  could  she  think  of  persuading  him 
to  stay  home.  She  must  forget  herself.  She  knew  then 
that  she  had  the  power  to  keep  him  and  she  could  use  it, 
but  she  must  not  do  so.  This  tragic  thing  was  a  matter  of 
his  soul.  But  if  he  went  to  war  with  this  bitter  obsession, 
with  this  wrong  motive,  this  passionate  desire  to  spill 
blood  in  him  that  he  hated,  he  would  lose  his  soul.  He 
must  be  changed.  All  her  love,  all  her  woman's  flashing, 
subtle  thought  concentrated  on  this  fact.  How  strange  the 
choice  that  had  been  given  her!  Not  only  must  she  relin 
quish  her  hope  of  keeping  him  home,  but  she  must  per- 

239 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

haps  go  to  desperate  ends  to  send  him  away  with  a  changed 
spirit.     The  moment  of  decision  was  agony  for  her. 

"Kurt,  this  is  a  terrible  hour  for  both  of  us,"  she  said, 
"but,  thank  Heaven,  you  have  confessed  to  me.  Now 
I  will  confess  to  you." 

"Confess?  .  .  .  You?  .  .  .  What  nonsense!"  he  ex 
claimed.  But  in  his  surprise  he  lifted  his  head  from  his 
hands  to  look  at  her. 

' '  When  we  came  in  here  my  mind  was  made  up  to  make 
you  stay  home.  Father  begged  me  to  do  it,  and  I  had 
my  own  selfish  motive.  It  was  love.  Oh,  I  do  love  you, 
Kurt,  more  than  you  can  dream  of!  ...  I  justified  my 
resolve.  I  told  you  that.  But  I  wanted  you.  I  wanted 
your  love — your  presence.  I  longed  for  a  home  with  you 
as  husband — master — father  to  my  babies.  I  dreamed  of 
all.  It  filled  me  with  terror  to  think  of  you  going  to 
war.  You  might  be  crippled — mangled — murdered.  .  .  . 
Oh,  my  dear,  I  could  not  bear  the  thought!  ...  So  I 
meant  to  overcome  you.  I  had  it  all  planned.  I  meant 
to  love  you — to  beg  you — to  kiss  you — to  make  you 
stay—" 

"Lenore,  what  are  you  saying?"  he  cried,  in  shocked 
amaze. 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck.  "Oh,  I  could — I 
could  have  kept  you!"  she  answered,  low  voiced  and 
triumphant.  "It  fills  me  with  joy.  .  .  .  Tell  me  I  could 
have  kept  you — tell  me." 

"Yes.  I've  no  power  to  resist  you.  But  I  might  have 
hated—" 

"Hush!  .  .  .  It's  all  might  have.  .  .  .  I've  risen  above 
myself." 

"Lenore,  you  distress  me.  A  little  while  ago  you  be 
wildered  me  with  your  sweetness  and  love.  .  .  .  Now — 
you  look  like  an  angel  or  a  goddess.  .  .  .  Oh,  to  have  your 
face  like  this — always  with  me!  Yet  it  distresses  me — 
so  terrible  in  purpose.  What  are  you  about  to  tell  me? 
I  see  something — " 

240 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Listen,"  she  broke  in.  "I  meant  to  make  you  weak. 
I  implore  you  now  to  be  strong.  You  must  go  to  war! 
But  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  I  beg  you  to  go  with  a 
changed  spirit.  .  .  .  You  were  about  to  do  a  terrible 
thing.  You  hated  the  German  in  you  and  meant  to  kill 
it  by  violence.  You  despised  the  German  blood  and  you 
meant  to  spill  it.  Like  a  wild  man  you  would  have  rushed 
to  fight,  to  stab  and  beat,  to  murder — and  you  would 
have  left  your  breast  open  for  a  bayonet-thrust.  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  know  it!  ...  Kurt,  you  are  horribly  wrong.  That  is 
no  way  to  go  to  war.  .  .  .  War  is  a  terrible  business,  but 
men  don't  wage  it  for  motives  such  as  yours.  We  Ameri 
cans  all  have  different  strains  of  blood — English — French 
— German.  One  is  as  good  as  another.  You  are  ob 
sessed — you  are  out  of  your  head  on  this  German  question. 
You  must  kill  that  idea — kill  it  with  one  bayonet-thrust 
of  sense.  .  .  .  You  must  go  to  war  as  my  soldier — with 
my  ideal.  Your  country  has  called  you  to  help  uphold 
its  honor,  its  pledged  word.  You  must  fight  to  conquer 
an  enemy  who  threatens  to  destroy  freedom.  .  .  .  You 
must  be  brave,  faithful,  merciful,  clean — an  American 
soldier!  .  .  .  You  are  only  one  of  a  million.  You  have  no 
personal  need  for  war.  You  are  as  good,  as  fine,  as  noble 
as  any  man — my  choice,  sir,  of  all  the  men  in  the  world! 
...  I  am  sending  you.  I  am  giving  you  up.  ...  Oh, 
my  darling — you  will  never  know  how  hard  it  is!  ... 
But  go !  Your  life  has  been  sad.  You  have  lost  so  much. 
I  feel  in  my  woman's  heart  what  will  be — if  only  you'll 
change — if  you  see  God  in  this  as  I  see.  Promise  me. 
Love  that  which  you  hated.  Prove  for  yourself  what  I 
believe.  Trust  me  —  promise  me.  .  .  .  Then  —  oh,  I 
know  God  will  send  you  back  to  me!" 

He  fell  upon  his  knees  before  her  to  bury  his  face  in  her 
lap.  His  whole  frame  shook.  His  hands  plucked  at  her 
dress.  A  low  sob  escaped  him. 

"Lenore,"  he  whispered,  brokenly,  "I  can't  see  God 
in  this— for  me!  .  .  .  I  can't  promise!" 

241 


CHAPTER  XXI 

r"PHIRTY  masked  men  sat  around  a  long  harvest 
1  mess-table.  Two  lanterns  furnished  light  enough  to 
show  a  bare  barnlike  structure,  the  rough-garbed  plotters, 
the  grim  set  of  hard  lips  below  the  half -masks,  and  big 
hands  spread  out,  ready  to  draw  from  the  hat  that  was 
passing. 

The  talk  was  low  and  serious.  No  names  were  spo&en. 
A  heavy  man,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  said:  "We  thirty, 
picked  men,  represent  the  country.  Let  each  member 
here  write  on  his  slip  of  paper  his  choice  of  punishment 
for  the  I.  W.  W.'s— death  or  deportation.  .  .  ." 

The  members  of  the  band  bent  their  masked  laces  and 
wrote  in  a  dead  silence.  A  noiseless  wind  blew  through 
the  place.  The  lanterns  flickered;  huge  shadows  moved 
on  the  walls.  When  the  papers  had  been  passed  back  to 
the  leader  he  read  them. 

"Deportation,"  he  announced.  "So  much  for  the 
I.  W.  W.  men.  .  .  .  Now  for  the  leader.  .  .  .  But  be 
fore  we  vote  on  what  to  do  with  Glidden  let  me  read  an 
extract  from  one  of  his  speeches.  This  is  authentic. 
It  has  been  furnished  by  the  detective  lately  active  in  our 
interest.  Also  it  has  been  published.  I  read  it  because 
I  want  to  bring  home  to  you  all  an  issue  that  goes  be 
yond  our  own  personal  fortunes  here," 

Leaning  toward  the  flickering  flare  of  the  lantern,  the 
leader  read  from  a  slip  of  paper:  "If  the  militia  are  sent 
out  here  to  hinder  the  I.  W.  W.  we  will  make  it  so  damned 
hot  for  the  government  that  no  troops  will  be  able  to  go 
to  France.  ...  I  don't  give  a  damn  what  this  country 
is  fighting  for.  ...  I  am  fighting  for  the  rights  of  labor. 
.  .  .  American  soldiers  are  Uncle  Sam's  scabs  in  disguise." 

The  deep,  impressive  voice  ended.  The  leader's  huge 

242 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

fist  descended  upon  the  table  with  a  crash.  He  gazed  up 
and  down  the  rows  of  sinister  masked  figures.  "Have 
you  anything  to  say?" 

"No,"  replied  one. 

"Pass  the  slips,"  said  another. 

And  then  a  man,  evidently  on  in  years,  for  his  hair  was 
gray  and  he  looked  bent,  got  up.  "Neighbors,"  he  be 
gan  "I  lived  here  in  the  early  days.  For  the  last  few 
years  I've  been  apologizing  for  my  home  town.  I  don't 
want  to  apologize  for  it  any  longer." 

He  sat  down.  And  a  current  seemed  to  wave  from  him 
around  that  dark  square  of  figures.  The  leader  cleared  his 
throat  as  if  he  had  much  to  say,  but  he  did  not  speak. 
Instead  he  passed  the  hat.  Each  man  drew  forth  a  slip 
of  paper  and  wrote  upon  it.  The  action  was  not  slow. 
Presently  the  hat  returned  round  the  table  to  the  leader. 
He  spilled  its  contents,  and  with  steady  hand  picked  up 
the  first  slip  of  paper. 

"Death!"  he  read,  sonorously,  and  laid  it  down  to 
pick  up  another.  Again  he  spoke  that  grim  word.  The 
third  brought  forth  the  same,  and  likewise  the  next,  and 
all,  until  the  verdict  had  been  called  out  thirty  times. 

"At  daylight  we'll  meet,"  boomed  out  that  heavy 
voice.  "Instruct  Glidden's  guards  to  make  a  show  of 
resistance.  .  .  .  We'll  hang  Glidden,  to  the  railroad  bridge. 
Then  each  of  you  get  your  gangs  together.  Round  up 
all  the  I.  W.  W.'s.  Drive  them  to  the  railroad  yard. 
There  we'll  put  them  aboard  a  railroad  train  of  empty 
cars.  And  that  train  will  pass  under  the  bridge  where 
Glidden  will  be  hanging.  .  .  .  We'll  escort  them  out  of 
the  country." 

That  August  dawn  was  gray  and  cool,  with  gold  and 
pink  beginning  to  break  over  the  dark  eastern  ranges. 
The  town  had  not  yet  awakened.  It  slept  unaware  of  the 
stealthy  forms  passing  down  the  gray  road  and  of  the  dis 
tant  hum.  of  motor-cars  and  trot  of  hoofs. 

243 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Glidden 's  place  of  confinement  was  a  square  ware 
house,  near  the  edge  of  town.  Before  the  improvised 
jail  guards  paced  up  and  down,  strangely  alert. 

Daylight  had  just  cleared  away  the  gray  when  a  crowd 
of  masked  men  appeared  as  if  by  magic  and  bore  down 
upon  the  guards.  There  was  an  apparent  desperate 
resistance,  but,  significantly,  no  cries  or  shots.  The  guards 
were  overpowered  and  bound. 

The  door  of  the  jail  yielded  to  heavy  blows  of  an  ax. 
In  the  corner  of  a  dim,  bare  room  groveled  Glidden, 
bound  so  that  he  had  little  use  of  his  body.  But  he  was 
terribly  awake.  When  six  men  entered  he  asked,  hoarsely : 
"What  're  you — after?  .  .  .What — you  mean?" 

They  jerked  him  erect.  They  cut  the  bonds  from  his 
legs.  They  dragged  him  out  into  the  light  of  breaking 
day. 

When  he  saw  the  masked  and  armed  force  he  cried: 
"My  God!  .  .  .  What  11  you— do  with  me?" 

Ghastly,  working,  sweating,  his  face  betrayed  his 
terror. 

"You're  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck,"  spoke  a  heavy, 
solemn  voice. 

The  man  would  have  collapsed  but  for  the  strong  hands 
that  upheld  him. 

"What— for?"  he  gasped. 

"For  I.  W.  W.  crimes — for  treason — for  speeches  no 
American  can  stand  in  days  like  these."  Then  thi? 
deep-voiced  man  read  to  Glidden  words  of  his  own. 

"Do  you  recognize  that?" 

Glidden  saw  how  he  had  spoken  his  own  doom.  "Yes, 
I  said  that,"  he  had  nerve  left  to  say.  "But — I  insist  on 
arrest — trial — justice!  ...  I'm  no  criminal.  ...  I've 
big  interests  behind  me.  .  .  .  You'll  suffer — " 

A  loop  of  a  lasso,  slung  over  his  head  and  jerked  tight, 
choked  off  his  intelligible  utterance.  But  as  the  silent, 
ruthless  men  dragged  him  away  he  gave  vent  to  terrible, 
half-strangled  cries. 

244 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

The  sun  rose  red  over  the  fertile  valley — over  the  harvest 
fields  and  the  pastures  and  the  orchards,  and  over  the  many 
towns  that  appeared  lost  in  the  green  and  gold  of  luxu 
riance. 

In  the  harvest  districts  west  of  the  river  all  the  towns 
were  visited  by  swift-flying  motor-cars  that  halted  long 
enough  for  a  warning  to  be  shouted  to  the  citizens,  "Keep 
off  the  streets!" 

Simultaneously  armed  forces  of  men,  on  foot  and  on 
horseback,  too  numerous  to  count,  appeared  in  the  roads 
and  the  harvest  fields. 

They  accosted  every  man  they  met.  If  he  were  recog 
nized  or  gave  proof  of  an  honest  identity  he  was  allowed 
to  go;  otherwise  he  was  marched  along  under  arrest. 
These  armed  forces  were  thorough  in  their  search,  and  in 
the  country  districts  they  had  an  especial  interest  in  likely 
camping-places,  and  around  old  barns  and  straw-stacks. 
In  the  towns  they  searched  every  corner  that  was  big 
enough  to  hide  a  man. 

So  it  happened  that  many  motley  groups  of  men  were 
driven  toward  the  railroad  line,  where  they  were  held 
until  a  freight-train  of  empty  cattle-cars  came  along.  This 
train  halted  long  enough  to  have  the  I.  W.  W.  contingent 
driven  aboard,  with  its  special  armed  guard  following, 
and  then  it  proceeded  on  to  the  next  station.  As  stations 
were  many,  so  were  the  halts,  and  news  of  the  train  with 
its  strange  freight  flashed  ahead.  Crowds  lined  the  rail 
road  tracks.  Many  boys  and  men  in  these  crowds  car 
ried  rifles  and  pistols  which  they  leveled  at  the  I.  W.  W. 
prisoners  as  the  train  passed.  Jeers  and  taunts  and  threats 
accompanied  this  presentation  of  guns. 

Before  the  last  station  of  that  wheat  district  was  reached 
full  three  hundred  members  of  the  I.  W.  W.,  or  otherwise 
suspicious  characters,  were  packed  into  the  open  cars. 
At  the  last  stop  the  number  was  greatly  augmented,  and 
the  armed  forces  were  cut  down  to  the  few  guards  who 
were  to  see  the  I.  W.  W.  deported  from  the  country. 

245 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Here  provisions  and  drinking-water  were  put  into  the  cars. 
And  amid  a  hurrahing  roar  of  thousands  the  train  with 
its  strange  load  slowly  pulled  out. 

It  did  not  at  once  gather  headway.  The  engine  whistled 
a  prolonged  blast — a  signal  or  warning  not  lost  on  many  of 
its  passengers. 

From  the  front  cars  rose  shrill  cries  that  alarmed  the 
prisoners  in  the  rear.  The  reason  soon  became  manifest. 
Arms  pointed  and  eyes  stared  at  the  figure  of  a  man  hang 
ing  from  a  rope  fastened  to  the  center  of  a  high  bridge 
span  under  which  the  engine  was  about  to  pass. 

The  figure  swayed  in  the  wind.  It  turned  half-way 
round,  disclosing  a  ghastly,  distorted  face,  and  a  huge 
printed  placard  on  the  breast,  then  it  turned  back  again. 
Slowly  the  engine  drew  one  car-load  after  another  past  the 
suspended  body  of  the  dead  man.  There  were  no  more 
cries.  All  were  silent  in  that  slow-moving  train.  All 
faces  were  pale,  all  eyes  transfixed. 

The  placard  on  the  hanged  man's  breast  bore  in  glaring 
red  a  strange  message:  Last  warning.  3-7-77. 

The  figures  were  the  ones  used  in  the  frontier  days  by 
vigilantes,  " 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  DUSTY  motor-car  climbed  the  long  road  leading  up 
to  the  Nettman  ranch.  It  was  not  far  from  Wade,  a 
small  hamlet  of  the  wheat-growing  section,  and  the  slopes 
of  the  hills,  bare  and  yellow  with  waving  grain,  bore  some 
semblance  to  the  Bend  country.  Four  men — a  driver  and 
three  cowboys — were  in  the  automobile. 

A  big  stone  gate  marked  the  entrance  to  Neuman's 
ranch.  Cars  and  vehicles  lined  the  roadside.  Men  were 
passing  in  and  out.  Neuman's  home  was  unpretentious, 
but  his  barns  and  granaries  and  stock-houses  were  built 
on  a  large  scale. 

"Bill,  are  you  goin'  in  with  me  after  this  pard  of  the 
Kaiser's?"  inquired  Jake,  leisurely  stretching  himself  as 
the  car  halted.  He  opened  the  door  and  stiffly  got  out. 
"  Gimme  a  hoss  any  day  fer  gittin'  places !" 

"Jake,  my  regard  fer  your  rep  as  Anderson's  foreman 
makes  me  want  to  hug  the  background,"  replied  Bill. 
"I've  done  a  hell  of  a  lot  these  last  forty-eight  hours." 

"Wai,  I  reckon  you  have,  Bill,  an' no  mistake.  .  .  .  But 
I  was  figgerin'  on  you  wantin'  to  see  the  fun." 

"Fun!  .  .  .  Jake,  it  '11  be  fun  enough  fer  me  to  sit 
hyar  an*  smoke  in  the  shade,  an'  watch  fer  you  to  come 
a-runnin'  from  thet  big  German  devil.  .  .  .  Pard,  they 
say  he's  a  bad  man!" 

"Sure.     I  know  thet.     All  them  Germans  is  bad." 

"If  the  boss  hadn't  been  so  dog-gone  strict  about  gun 
play  I'd  love  to  go  with  you,"  responded  Bill.  "But  he 
didn't  give  me  no  orders.  You're  the  whole  outfit  this 
round-up." 

"Bill,  you'd  have  to  take  orders  from  me,"  said  Jake, 
coolly. 

"Sure.     Thet's  why  I  come  with  Andy." 
.247 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

The  other  cowboy,  called  Andy,  manifested  uneasiness, 
and  he  said:  "Aw,  now,  Jake,  you  ain't  a-goin'  to  ask  me 
to  go  in  there?  .  .  .  An'  me  hatin'  Germans  the  way  I  do !" 

"Nope.  I  guess  I'll  order  Bill  to  go  in  an'  fetch  Neu- 
man  out,"  replied  Jake,  complacently,  as  he  made  as  if 
to  re-enter  the  car. 

Bill  collapsed  in  his  seat.  "Jake,"  he  expostulated, 
weakly,  "this  job  was  given  you  because  of  your  rep  fer 
deploomacy.  .  .  .  Sure  I  haven't  none  of  thet.  .  .  .  An' 
you,  Jake,  why  you're  the  smoothest  an'  slickest  talker 
thet  ever  come  to  the  Northwest." 

Evidently  Jake  had  a  vulnerable  point.  He  straight 
ened  up  with  a  little  swagger.  "Wai,  you  watch  me," 
he  said.  "I'll  fetch  the  big  Dutchman  eatiii'  out  of  my 
hand.  .  .  .  An'  say,  when  we  git  him  in  the  car  an'  start 
back  let's  scare  the  daylights  out  of  him." 

"Thet  'd  be  powerful  fine.     But  how?" 

"You  fellers  take  a  hunch  from  me,"  replied  Jake. 
And  he  strode  off  up  the  lane  toward  the  ranch-house. ' 

Jake  had  been  commissioned  to  acquaint  Neuman  with 
the  fact  that  recent  developments  demanded  his  imme 
diate  presence  at  "Many  Waters."  The  cowboy  really 
had  a  liking  for  the  job,  though  he  pretended  not  to. 

Neuman  had  not  yet  begun  harvesting.  There  were 
signs  to  Jake's  experienced  eye  that  the  harvest-hands 
were  expected  this  very  day.  Jake  fancied  he  knew  why 
the  rancher  had  put  off  his  harvesting.  And  also  he  knev? 
that  the  extra  force  of  harvest-hands  would  not  appear. 
He  was  regarded  with  curiosity  by  the  women  members  of 
the  Neuman  household,  and  rather  enjoyed  it.  There 
were  several  comely  girls  in  evidence.  Jake  did  not  look 
a  typical  Northwest  foreman  and  laborer.  Booted  and 
spurred,  with  his  gun  swinging  visibly,  and  his  big  som 
brero  and  gaudy  scarf,  he  looked  exactly  what  he  was,  a 
cowman  of  the  open  ranges. 

His  inquiries  elicited  the  fact  that  Neuman  was  out  in 
the  fields,  waiting  for  the  harvest-hands. 

248 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Wai,  if  he's  expectin'  thet  outfit  of  I.  W.  W.'s  he'll 
never  harvest,"  said  Jake,  "for  some  of  them  is  hanged 
an'  the  rest  run  out  of  the  country." 

Jake  did  not  wait  to  see  the  effect  of  his  news.  He 
strode  back  toward  the  fields,  and  with  the  eye  of  a  farmer 
he  appraised  the  barns  and  corrals,  and  the  fields  beyond. 
'Neuman  raised  much  wheat,  and  enough  alfalfa  to  feed 
his  stock.  His  place  was  large  and  valuable,  but  not  com 
parable  to  "Many  Waters." 

Out  in  the  wheat-fields  were  engines  with  steam  already 
up,  with  combines  and  threshers  and  wagons  waiting  for 
the  word  to  start.  Jake  enjoyed  the  keen  curiosity  roused 
by  his  approach.  Neuman  strode  out  from  a  group  of 
waiting  men.  He  was  huge  of  build,  ruddy-faced  and 
bearded,  with  deep-set  eyes. 

"Are  you  Neuman?"  inquired  Jake. 

"That's  me,"  gruffly  came  the  reply. 

"I'm  Anderson's  foreman.  I've  been  sent  over  to 
tell  you  thet  you're  wanted  pretty  bad  at '  Many  Waters.' " 

The  man  stared  incredulously.  "What?  .  .  .  Who 
wants  me?" 

"Anderson.  An'  I  reckon  there's  more — though  I 
ain't  informed." 

Neuman  rumbled  a  curse.  Amaze  "dominated  him. 
"Anderson!  .  .  .  Well,  I  don't  want  to  see  him,"  he 
replied. 

"I  reckon  you  don't,"  was  the  cowboy's  cool  reply. 

The  rancher  looked  him  up  and  down.  However 
familiar  his  type  was  to  Anderson,  it  was  strange  to  Neu 
man.  The  cowboy  breathed  a  potential  force.  The 
least  significant  thing  about  his  appearance  was  that 
swinging  gun.  He  seemed  cool  and  easy,  with  hard,  keen 
eyes.  Neuman's  face  took  a  shade  off  color. 

"But  I'm  going  to  harvest  to-day,"  he  said.  "I'm 
late.  I've  a  hundred  hands  coming." 

"Nope.     You  haven't  none  comin',"  asserted  Jake. 

"What!"  ejaculated  Neuman. 

249 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Reckon  it's  near  ten  o'clock,"  said  the  cowboy.  "We 
run  over  here  powerful  fast." 

"Yes,  it's  near  ten,"  bellowed  Neuman,  on  the  verge  of 
a  rage.  .  .  .  "I  haven't  harvest-hands  coming!  .  .  . 
What's  this  talk?" 

"Wai,  about  nine-thirty  I  seen  all  your  damned  I.  W. 
W.'s,  except  what  was  shot  an'  hanged,  loaded  in  a  cattle- 
car  an'  started  out  of  the  country." 

A  blow  could  not  have  hit  harder  than  the  cowboy's 
biting  speech.  Astonishment  and  fear  shook  Neuman 
before  he  recovered  control  of  himself. 

"If  it's  true,  what's  that  to  me?"  he  bluffed,  in  hoarse 
accents. 

"Neuman,  I  didn't  come  to  answer  questions,"  said 
the  cowboy,  curtly.  "My  boss  jest  sent  me  fer  you,  an' 
if  you  bucked  on  comin',  then  I  was  to  say  it  was  your 
only  chance  to  avoid  publicity  an'  bein'  run  out  of  the 
country." 

Neuman  was  livid  of  face  now  and  shaking  all  over  his 
huge  frame. 

"Anderson  threatens  me!"  he  shouted.  "Anderson 
suspicions  me!  .  .  .  Gott  in  Himmel!  .  .  .  Me  he  always 
cheated!  An'  now  he  insults — " 

"Say,  it  ain't  healthy  to  talk  like  thet  about  my  boss," 
interrupted  Jake,  forcibly.  "An'  we're  wastin'  time.  If 
you  don't  go  with  me  we'll  be  comin'  back — the  whole  out 
fit  of  us!  .  .  .  Anderson  means  you're  to  face  his  man!" 

"Whatman?" 

"Dorn.  Young  Dorn,  son  of  old  Chris  Dorn  of  the 
Bend.  .  .  .  Dorn  has  some  things  to  tell  you  thet  you 
won't  want  made  public.  .  .  .  Anderson's  givin'  you  a 
square  deal.  If  it  wasn't  fer  thet  I'd  sling  my  gun  on 
you!  .  .  .  Do  you  git  my  hunch?" 

The  name  of  Dorn  made  a  slack  figure  of  the  aggres 
sive  Neuman. 

"  All  right— I  go,"  he  said,  gruffly,  and  without  a  word 
to  his  men  he  started  off. 

250 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Jake  followed  him.  Neuman  made  a  short  cut  to  the 
gate,  thus  avoiding  a  meeting  with  any  of  his  family.  At 
the  road,  however,  some  men  observed  him  and  called  in 
surprise,  but  he  waved  them  back. 

"Bill,  you  an'  Andy  collect  yourselves  an*  give  Mr.  Neu 
man  a  seat,"  said  Jake,  as  he  opened  the  door  to  allow  the 
farmer  to  enter. 

The  two  cowboys  gave  Neuman  the  whole  of  the  back 
seat,  and  they  occupied  the  smaller  side  seats.  Jake 
took  his  place  beside  the  driver. 

"Burn  her  up!"  was  his  order. 

The  speed  of  the  car  made  conversation  impossible 
until  the  limits  of  a  town  necessitated  slowing  down. 
Then  the  cowboys  talked.  For  all  the  attention  they 
paid  to  Neuman,  he  might  as  well  not  have  been  pres 
ent.  Before  long  the  driver  turned  into  a  road  that 
followed  a  railroad  track  for  several  miles  and  then 
crossed  it  to  enter  a  good-sized  town.  The  streets  were 
crowded  with  pe6ple  and  the  car  had  to  be  driven  slowly. 
At  this  juncture  Jake  suggested: 

"Let's  go  down  by  the  bridge." 

"Sure,"  agreed  his  allies. 

Then  the  driver  turned  down  a  still  more  peopled  street 
that  sloped  a  little  and  evidently  overlooked  the  railroad 
tracks.  Presently  they  came  in  sight  of  a  railroad  bridge, 
around  which  there  appeared  to  be  an  excited  yet  awe 
struck  throng.  All  faces  were  turned  up  toward  the  sway 
ing  form  of  a  man  hanging  by  a  rope  tied  to  the  high  span 
of  the  bridge. 

"Wai,  Glidden's  hangin'  there  yet,"  remarked  Jake, 
cheerfully. 

With  a  violent  start  Neuman  looked  out  to  see  the 
ghastly  placarded  figure,  and  then  he  sank  slowly  back  in 
his  seat.  The  cowboys  apparently  took  no  notice  of  him. 
They  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  presence. 

"Funny  they'd  cut  all  the  other  I.  W.  W.'s  down  an' 
leave  Glidden  hangin'  there,"  observed  Bill. 

17  251 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Them  vigilantes  sure  did  it  up  brown,"  added  Andy. 
"I  was  dyin'  to  join  the  band.  But  they  didn't  ask  me." 

"Nor  me,"  replied  Jake,  regretfully.  "An'  I  can't 
understand  why,  onless  it  was  they  was  af eared  I  couldn't 
keep  a  secret." 

* '  Who  is  them  vigilantes,  anyhow  ? ' '  asked  Bill,  curiously. 

"Wai,  I  reckon  nobody  knows.  But  I  seen  a  thousand 
armed  men  this  mornin'.  They  sure  looked  bad.  You 
ought  to  have  seen  them  poke  the  I.  W.  W.'s  with  cocked 
guns." 

"Was  any  one  shot?"  queried  Andy. 

"Not  in.  the  daytime.  Nobody  killed  by  this  Citizens' 
Protective  League,  as  they  call  themselves.  They  just 
rounded  up  all  the  suspicious  men  an'  herded  them  on 
to  thet  cattle-train  an'  carried  them  off.  It  was  at  night 
when  the  vigilantes  worked — masked  an'  secret  an'  sure 
bloody.  Jest  like  the  old  vigilante  days!  .  .  .  An'  you 
can  gamble  they  ain't  through  yet." 

"Uncle  Sam  won't  need  to  send  any  soldiers  here." 

"Wai,  I  should  smile  not.  Thet  'd  be  a  disgrace  to  the 
Northwest.  It  was  a  bad  time  fer  the  I.  W.  W.  to  try 
any  tricks  on  us." 

Jake  shook  his  lean  head  and  his  jaw  bulged.  He  might 
have  been  haranguing,  cowboy-like,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
man  they  feigned  not  to  notice,  but  it  was  plain,  never 
theless,  that  he  was  angry. 

"What  gits  me  wuss  'n  them  I.  W.  W.'s  is  the  skunks 
thet  give  Uncle  Sam  the  double-cross,"  said  Andy,  with 
dark  face.  "I'll  stand  fer  any  man  an'  respect  him  if 
he's  aboveboard  an'  makes  his  fight  in  the  open.  But  them 
coyotes  thet  live  off  the  land  an'  pretend  to  be  American 
when  they  ain't — they  make  me  pisen  mad." 

"I  heerd  the  vigilantes  has  marked  men  like  thet," 
observed  Bill. 

"I'll  give  you  a  hunch,  fellers,"  replied  Jake,  grimly. 
"By  Gawd!  the  West  won't  stand  fer  traitors!" 

All  the  way  to  "Many  Waters,"  where  it  was  possible 
252 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

to  talk  and  be  heard,  the  cowboys  continued  in  like  strain. 
And  not  until  the  driver  halted  the  car  before  Anderson's 
door  did  they  manifest  any  awareness  of  Neuman. 

"Git  out  an'  come  in,"  said  Jake  to  the  pallid,  sweating 
rancher. 

He  led  Neuman  into  the  hall  and  knocked  upon  Ander 
son's  study  door.  It  was  opened  by  Dorn. 

"Wai,  hyar  we  are,"  announced  Jake,  and  his  very  non 
chalance  attested  to  pride. 

Anderson  was  standing  beside  his  desk.  He  started, 
and  his  hand  flashed  back  significantly  as  he  sighted  his 
rival  and  enemy. 

"No  gun-play,  boss,  was  your  orders,"  said  Jake. 
"An'  Neuman  ain't  packin'  no  gun." 

It  was  plain  that  Anderson  made  a  great  effort  at 
restraint.  But  he  failed.  And  perhaps  the  realization 
that  he  could  not  kill  this  man  liberated  his  passion ,  Then 
the  two  big  ranchers  faced  each  other — Neuman  livid  and 
shaking,  Anderson  black  as  a  thunder-cloud. 

"Neuman,  you  hatched  up  a  plot  with  Glidden  to  kill 
me,"  said  Anderson,  bitterly. 

Neuman,  in  hoarse,  brief  answer,  denied  it. 

"Sure!  Deny  it.  What  do  we  care?  .  .  .  We've 
got  you,  Neuman,"  burst  out  Anderson,  his  heavy  voice 
ringing  with  passion.  "But  it's  not  your  low-down  plot 
thet's  r'iled  me.  There's  been  a  good  many  men  who've 
tried  to  do  away  with  me.  I've  outplayed  you  in  many 
a  deal.  So  your  personal  hate  for  me  doesn't  count. 
I'm  sore — an'  you  an'  me  can't  live  in  the  same  place, 
because  you're  a  damned  traitor.  You've  lived  here  for 
twenty  years.  You've  grown  rich  off  the  country.  An* 
you'd  sell  us  to  your  rotten  Germany.  What  I  think  of 
you  for  that  I'm  goin'  to  tell  you." 

Anderson  paused  to  take  a  deep  breath.  Then  he 
began  to  curse  Neuman.  All  the  rough  years  of  his  fron 
tier  life,  as  well  as  the  quieter  ones  of  his  ranching  days, 
found  expression  in  the  swift,  thunderous  roll  of  his 

253 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

terrible  scorn.  Every  vile  name  that  had  ever  been  used 
by  cowboy,  outlaw,  gambler,  leaped  to  Anderson's  sting 
ing  tongue.  All  the  keen,  hard  epithets  common  to  the 
modern  day  he  flung  into  Neuman's  face.  And  he  ended 
with  a  profanity  that  was  as  individual  in  character  as  its 
delivery  was  intense. 

"  I'm  callin'  you  for  my  own  relief,"  he  concluded, 
"  an'  not  that  I  expect  to  get  under  your  hide." 

Then  he  paused.  He  wiped  the  beaded  drops  from, 
his  forehead,  and  he  coughed  and  shook  himself.  His 
big  fists  unclosed.  Passion  gave  place  to  dignity. 

"Neuman,  it's  a  pity  you  an'  men  like  you  can't  see 
the  truth.  That's  the  mystery  to  me — why  any  one  who 
had  spent  half  a  lifetime  an'  prospered  here  in  our  happy 
an'  beautiful  country  could  ever  hate  it.  I  never  will 
understand  that.  But  I  do  understand  that  America 
will  never  harbor  such  men  for  long.  You  have  your 
reasons,  I  reckon.  An'  no  doubt  you  think  you're  justi 
fied.  That's  the  tragedy.  You  run  off  from  hard-ruled 
Germany.  You  will  not  live  there  of  your  own  choice. 
You  succeed  here  an'  live  in  peace  an'  plenty.  .  .  . 
An',  by  God!  you  take  up  with  a  lot  of  foreign  riffraff 
an'  double-cross  the  people  you  owe  so  much!  .  .  . 
What's  wrong  with  your  mind?  .  .  .  Think  it  over.  .  .  . 
An'  that's  the  last  word  I  have  for  you." 

Anderson,  turning  to  his  desk,  took  up  a  cigar  and 
lighted  it.  He  was  calm  again.  There  was  really  sadness 
where  his  face  had  shown  only  fury.  Then  he  addressed 
Dorn. 

"Kurt,  it's  up  to  you  now,"  he  said.  "As  my  superin 
tendent  an'  some-day  partner,  what  you'll  say  goes  with 
me.  ...  I  don't  know  what  bein'  square  would  mean  in 
relation  to  this  man." 

Anderson  sat  down  heavily  in  his  desk  chair  and  his 
face  became  obscured  in  cigar  smoke. 

"Neuman,  do  you  recognize  me?"  asked  Dorn,  with 
his  flashing  eyes  on  the  rancher. 

254 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"No,"  replied  Neuman. 

"  I'm  Chris  Dorn's  son.  My  father  died  a  few  days  ago. 
He  overtaxed  his  heart  righting  fire  in  the  wheat.  .  .  . 
Fire  set  by  I.  W.  W.  men.  Glidden's  men!  .  .  ,  They 
burned  our  wheat.  Ruined  us!" 

Neuman  showed  shock  at  the  news,  at  the  sudden 
death  of  an  old  friend,  but  he  did  not  express  himself  in 
words. 

"Do  you  deny  implication  in  Glidden's  plot  to  kill 
Anderson?"  demanded  Dorn. 

"Yes,"  replied  Neuman. 

"Well,  you're  a  liar!"  retorted  Dorn.  " I  saw  you  with 
Glidden  and  my  father.  I  followed  you  at  Wheatly — 
out  along  the  railroad  tracks.  I  slipped  up  and  heard  the 
plot.  It  was  I  who  snatched  the  money  from  my  father." 

Neuman's  nerve  was  gone,  but  with  his  stupid  and  stub 
born  process  of  thought  he  still  denied,  stuttering  incoher 
ently. 

"Glidden  has  been  hanged,"  went  on  Dorn.  "A 
vigilante  band  has  been  organized  here  in  the  valley. 
Men  of  your  known  sympathy  will  not  be  safe,  irrespective 
of  your  plot  against  Anderson.  But  as  to  that,  publicity 
alone  will  be  enough  to  ruin  you.  .  .  .  Americans  of  the 
West  will  not  tolerate  traitors.  .  .  .  Now  the  question 
you've  got  to  decide  is  this.  Will  you  take  the  risks  or  will 
you  sell  out  and  leave  the  country?" 

"Ill  sell  out,"  replied  Neuman. 

"What  price  do  you  put  on  your  ranch  as  it  stands?" 

"One  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

Dorn  turned  to  Anderson  and  asked,  "Is  it  worth  that 
much?" 

"No.  Seventy-five  thousand  would  be  a  big  price," 
replied  the  rancher. 

"Neuman,  we  will  give  you  seventy-five  thousand  for 
your  holdings.  Do  you  accept?" 

"I  have  no  choice,"  replied  Neuman,  sullenly. 

"Choice!"  exclaimed  Dorn.  "Yes,  you  have.  And 

255 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

you're  not  being  cheated.  I've  stated  facts.  You  are 
done  in  this  valley.  You're  ruined  now!  And  Glidden's 
fate  stares  you  in  the  face.  .  .  .  Will  you  sell  and  leave 
the  country?" 

"  Yes,"  came  the  deep  reply,  wrenched  from  a  stubborn 
breast. 

"Go  draw  up  your  deeds,  then  notify  us,"  said  Dorn, 
with  finality. 

Jake  opened  the  door.  Stolidly  and  slowly  Neuman 
went  out,  precisely  as  he  had  entered,  like  a  huge  rnari  ip 
conflict  with  unintelligible  thoughts. 

''Send  him  home  in  the  car,"  called  Anderson. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

FOR  two  fleeting    days  Lenore   Anderson  was  happy 
when  she  forgot,  miserable  when  she  remembered. 
Then  the  third  morning  dawned. 

At  the  breakfast-table  her  father  had  said,  cheerily,  to 
Dorn:  "  Better  take  off  your  coat  an'  come  out  to  the 
fields.  We've  got  some  job  to  harvest  that  wheat  with 
only  half -force.  .  .  .  But,  by  George!  my  trouble's  over." 

Dorn  looked  suddenly  blank,  as  if  Anderson's  cheery 
words  had  recalled  him  to  the  realities  of  life.  He  made 
an  incoherent  excuse  and  left  the  table. 

"Ah-huh!"  Anderson's  characteristic  exclamation 
might  have  meant  little  or  much.  "Lenore,  what  ails 
the  boy?" 

' '  Nothing  that  I  know  of.  He  has  been  as — as  happy  as 
I  am,"  she  replied. 

"Then  it's  all  settled?" 

"Father,   I— I—" 

Kathleen's  high,  shrill,  gleeful  voice  cut  in:  "Sure  it's 
settled!  Look  at  Lenorry  blush!" 

Lenore  indeed  felt  the  blood  stinging  face  and  neck. 
Nevertheless,  she  laughed. 

"Come  into  my  room,"  said  Anderson. 

She  followed  him  there,  and  as  he  closed  the  door  she 
answered  his  questioning  look  by  running  into  his  arms 
and  hiding  her  face. 

"Wai,  I'll  be  dog-goned!"  the  rancher  ejaculated,  with 
emotion.  He  held  her  and  patted  her  shoulder  with  his 
big  hand.  "Tell  me,  Lenore." 

"There's  little  to  tell,"  she  replied,  softly.  "I  love 
him — and  he  loves  me  so — so  well  that  I've  been  madly 
happy — in  spite  of — of — " 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Anderson,  dubiously, 
257 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Is  not  that  enough?" 

"But  Dorn's  lovin'  you  so  well  doesn't  say  he'll  not  go 
to  war." 

And  it  was  then  that  forgotten  bitterness  returned  to 
poison  Lenore's  cup  of  joy. 

"Ah!"  ...  she  whispered. 

"Good  Lord !  Lenore,  you  don't  mean  you  an*  Dorn  have 
been  alone  all  the  time  these  few  days — an'  you  haven't 
settled  that  war  question?"  queried  Anderson,  in  amaze. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  How  strange!  .  .  .  But  since — well,  since 
something  happened  —  we  —  we  forgot,"  she  replied, 
dreamily. 

"Wai,  go  back  to  it,"  said  Anderson,  forcibly.  "I 
want  Dorn  to  help  me.  .  .  .  Why,  he's  a  wonder!  .  .  . 
He's  saved  the  situation  for  us  here  in  the  valley.  Every 
rancher  I  know  is  praisin'  him  high.  An'  he  sure  treated 
Neuman  square.  An'  here  I  am  with  three  big  wheat- 
ranches  on  my  hands!  .  .  .  Lenore,  you've  got  to  keep 
him  home." 

"Dad!  .  .  .  I— I  could  not!"  replied  Lenore.  She 
was  strangely  realizing  an  indefinable  change  in  herself. 
"I  can't  try  to  keep  him  from  going  to  war.  I  never 
thought  of  that  since — since  we  confessed  our  love.  .  .  . 
But  it's  made  some  difference.  ...  It  '11  kill  me,  I  think, 
to  let  him  go — but  I'd  die  before  I'd  ask  him  to  stay 
home." 

"Ah-huh!"  sighed  Anderson,  and,  releasing  her,  he  be 
gan  to  pace  the  room.  "I  don't  begin  to  understand  you, 
girl.  But  I  respect  your  feelin's.  It's  a  hell  of  a  muddle ! 
...  I'd  forgotten  the  war  myself  while  chasin'  off  them 
I.  W.  W.'s.  .  .  .  But  this  war  has  got  to  be  reckoned  with! 
.  .  .  Send  Dorn  to  me!" 

Lenore  found  Dorn  playing  with  Kathleen.  These  two 
had  become  as  brother  and  sister. 

"Kurt,  dad  wants  to  see  you,"  said  Lenore  seriously. 

Dorn  looked  startled,  and  the  light  of  fun  on  his  face 
changed  to  a  sober  concern. 

258 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"You  told  him?" 

"Yes,  Kurt,  I  told  him  what  little  I  had  to  tell/* 

He  gave  her  a  strange  glance  and  then  slowly  went 
toward  her  father's  study.  Lenore  made  a  futile  attempt 
to  be  patient.  She  heard  her  father's  deep  voice,  full  and 
earnest,  and  she  heard  Dorn's  quick,  passionate  response. 
She  wondered  what  this  interview  meant.  Anderson 
was  not  one  to  give  up  easily.  He  had  set  his  heart  upon 
holding  this  capable  young  man  in  the  great  interests  of 
the  wheat  business.  Lenore  could  not  understand  why  she 
was  not  praying  that  he  be  successful.  But  she  was  not. 
It  was  inexplicable  and  puzzling — this  change  in  her — 
this  end  of  her  selfishness.  Yet  she  shrank  in  terror  from 
an  impinging  sacrifice.  She  thrust  the  thought  from  her 
with  passionate  physical  gesture  and  with  stern  effort  of 
will. 

Dorn  was  closeted  with  her  father  for  over  an  hour. 
When  he  came  out  he  was  white,  but  apparently  composed. 
Lenore  had  never  seen  his  eyes  so  piercing  as  when  they 
rested  upon  her. 

"Whew!"  he  exclaimed,  and  wiped  his  face.  "Your 
father  has  my  poor  old  dad— what  does  Kathleen  say?— 
skinned  to  a  frazzle!" 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  Lenore,  anxiously. 

"A  lot — and  just  as  if  I  didn't  know  it  all  better  than 
he  knows,"  replied  Dorn,  sadly.  "The  importance  of 
wheat;  his  three  ranches  and  nobody  to  run  them;  his 
growing  years;  my  future  and  a  great  opportunity  as  one 
of  the  big  wheat  men  of  the  Northwest;  the  present  need 
of  the  government;  his  only  son  gone  to  war,  which  was 
enough  for  his  family.  .  .  .  And  then  he  spoke  of  you 
— heiress  to  '  Many  Waters ' — what  a  splendid,  noble  girl 
you  were— like  your  mother !  What  a  shame  to  ruin  your 
happiness — your  future!  ...  He  said  you'd  make  the 
sweetest  of  wives — the  truest  of  mothers!  .  .  .  Oh,  my 
God!" 

Lenore  turned  away  her  face,  shocked  to  her  heart  by 

259 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

his  tragic  passion.     Dorn  was  silent  for  what  seemed  a 
long  time. 

"And — then  he  cussed  me — hard — as  no  doubt  I 
deserved,"  added  Dorn. 

"But — what  did  you  say?"  she  whispered. 

"I  said  a  lot,  too,"  replied  Dorn,  remorsefully. 

"Did — did  you — ?"  began  Lenore,  and  broke  off,  unable 
to  finish. 

"I  arrived — to  where  I  am  now — pretty  dizzy,"  he 
responded,  with  a  smile  that  was  both  radiant  and  sorrow 
ful.  He  took  her  hands  and  held  them  close.  "Lenore! 
...  if  I  come  home  from  the  war — still  with  my  arms  and 
legs — whole — will  you  marry  me?" 

"Only  come  home  alive,  and  no  matter  what  you  lose, 
yes! — yes!"  she  whispered,  brokenly. 

"But  it's  a  conditional  proposal,  Lenore,"  he  insisted. 
"You  must  never  marry  half  a  man." 

"I  will  marry  you!"  she  cried,  passionately. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  loved  him  all  the  more,  every 
moment,  even  though  he  made  it  so  hard  for  her.  Then 
through  blurred,  dim  eyes  she  saw  him  take  something 
from  his  pocket  and  felt  him  put  a  ring  on  her  ringer. 

"It  fits!  Isn't  that  lucky,"  he  said,  softly.  "My 
mother's  ring,  Lenore.  ..." 

He  kissed  her  hand. 

Kathleen  was  standing  near  them,  open-eyed  and  open- 
mouthed,  in  an  ecstasy  of  realization. 

"Kathleen,  your  sister  has  promised  to  marry  me — 
when  I  come  from  the  war,"  said  Dorn  to  the  child. 

She  squealed  with  delight,  and,  manifestly  surrender 
ing  to  a  long-considered  temptation,  she  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  hugged  him  close. 

"It's  perfectly  grand!"  she  cried.  "But  what  a 
chump  you  are  for  going  at  all — when  you  could  marry 
Lenorry!" 

That  was  Kathleen's  point  of  view,  and  it  must  have 
coincided  somewhat  with  Mr.  Anderson's. 

260 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Kathleen,  you  wouldn't  have  me  be  a  slacker?"  asked 
Dorn,  gently. 

"No.     But  we  let  Jim  go,"  was  her  argument. 

Dorn  kissed  her,  then  turned  to  Lenore.  "Let's  go 
out  to  the  fields." 

It  was  not  a  long  walk  to  the  alfalfa,  but  by  the  time 
she  got  there  Lenore's  impending  woe  was  as  if  it  had 
never  been.  Dorn  seemed  strangely  gay  and  unusually 
demonstrative;  apparently  he  forgot  the  war-cloud  in 
the  joy  of  the  hour.  That  they  were  walking  in  the  open 
seemed  not  to  matter  to  him. 

"Kurt,  some  one  will  see  you,"  Lenore  remonstrated. 

"You're  more  beautiful  than  ever  to-day,"  he  said,  by 
way  of  answer,  and  tried  to  block  her  way. 

Lenore  dodged  and  ran.  She  was  fleet,  and  eluded  him 
down  the  lane,  across  the  cut  field,  to  a  huge  square  stack 
of  baled  alfalfa.  But  he  caught  her  just  as  she  got  behind 
its  welcome  covert.  Lenore  was  far  less  afraid  of  him  than 
of  laughing  eyes.  Breathless,  she  backed  up  against  the 
stack. 

"You're — a — cannibal!"  she  panted.  But  she  did  not 
make  much  resistance. 

"You're — a  goddess!"  he  replied. 

"Me!  ...  Of  what?" 

"Why,  of  'Many  Waters'!  .  .  .  Goddess  of  wheat! 
.  .  .  The  sweet,  waving  wheat,  rich  and  golden — the  very 
spirit  of  life!" 

"If  anybody  sees  you — mauling  me — this  way — I'll 
not  seem  a  goddess  to  him.  .  .  .  My  hair  is  down — my 
waist—  Oh,  Kurt!" 

Yet  it  did  not  very  much  matter  how  she  looked  or  what 
happened.  Beyond  all  was  the  assurance  of  her  dear- 
ness  to  him.  Suddenly  she  darted  away  from  him  again. 
Her  heart  swelled,  her  spirit  soared,  her  feet  were  buoyant 
and  swift.  She  ran  into  the  uncut  alfalfa.  It  was  thick 
and  high,  tangling  round  her  feet.  Here  her  progress 

261 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

was  retarded.  Dorn  caught  up  with  her.  His  strong 
hands  on  her  shoulders  felt  masterful,  and  the  sweet 
terror  they  inspired  made  her  struggle  to  get  away. 

"You  shall — not — hold  me!"  she  cried. 

11  But  I  will.  You  must  be  taught — not  to  run,"  he 
said,  and  wrapped  her  tightly  in  his  arms. 

"Now  surrender  your  kisses  meekly!" 

"I — surrender!  .  .  .  But,  Kurt,  some  one  will  see.  .  .  . 
Dear,  we'll  go  back — or — somewhere — " 

"Who  can  see  us  here  but  the  birds?"  he  said,  and  the 
strong  hands  held  her  fast.  "You  will  kiss  me — enough — 
right  now — even  if  the  whole  world — looked  on!"  he 
said,  ringingly.  "Lenore,  my  soul!  .  .  .  Lenore,  I  love 
you!" 

He  would  not  be  denied.  And  if  she  had  any  desire 
to  deny  him  it  was  lost  in  the  moment.  She  clasped  his 
neck  and  gave  him  kiss  for  kiss. 

But  her  surrender  made  him  think  of  her.  She  felt 
his  effort  to  let  her  go. 

Lenore's  heart  felt  too  big  for  her  breast.  It  hurt. 
She  clung  to  his  hand  and  they  walked  on  across  the  field 
and  across  a  brook,  up  the  slope  to  one  of  Lenore's  favorite 
seats.  And  there  she  wanted  to  rest.  She  smoothed  her 
hair  and  brushed  her  dress,  aware  of  how  he  watched  her, 
with  his  heart  in  his  eyes. 

Had  there  ever  in  all  the  years  of  the  life  of  the  earth 
been  so  perfect  a  day?  How  dazzling  the  sun!  What 
heavenly  blue  the  sky !  And  all  beneath  so  gold,  so  green ! 
A  lark  caroled  over  Lenore's  head  and  a  quail  whistled  in 
the  brush  below.  The  brook  babbled  and  gurgled  and 
murmured  along,  happy  under  the  open  sky.  And  a  soft 
breeze  brought  the  low  roar  of  the  harvest  fields  and  the 
scent  of  wheat  and  dust  and  straw. 

Life  seemed  so  stingingly  full,  so  poignant,  so  immeasur 
ably  worth  living,  so  blessed  with  beauty  and  richness 
and  fruitfulness. 

"Lenore,  your  eyes  are.  windows — and  I  can  see  into 

262 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

your  soul.    I  can  read— and  first  I'm  uplifted  and  then 

I'm  sad." 

It  was  he  who  talked  and  she  who  listened.  This 
glorious  day  would  be  her  strength  when  the —  Ah! 
but  she  would  not  complete  a  single  bitter  thought. 

She  led  him  away,  up  the  slope,  across  the  barley- 
field,  now  cut  and  harvested,  to  the  great,  swelling  golden 
spaces  of  wheat.  Far  below,  the  engines  and  harvesters 
were  humming.  Here  the  wheat  waved  and  rustled  in  the 
wind.  It  was  as  high  as  Lenore's  head. 

"It's  fine  wheat,"  observed  Dorn.  ''But  the  wheat  of 
my  desert  hills  was  richer,  more  golden,  and  higher  than 
this." 

"No  regrets  to-day!"  murmured  Lenore,   leaning  to 

him. 

There  was  magic  in  those  words— the  same  enchant 
ment  that  made  the  hours  fly.  She  led  him,  at  will,  here 
and  there  along  the  rustling-bordered  lanes.  From  afar 
they  watched  the  busy  harvest  scene,  with  eyes  that 
lingered  long  on  a  great,  glittering  combine  with  its  thirty- 
two  horses  plodding  along. 

"I  can  drive  them.  Thirty-two  horses!"  she  asserted, 
proudly. 

"No!" 

"Yes.     Will  you  come?     I  will  show  you." 

"It  is  a  temptation,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "But  there 
are  eyes  there.  They  would  break  the  spell. ' ^ 

"Who's  talking  about  eyes  now?"  she  cried. 

They  spent  the  remainder  of  that  day  on  the  windy 
wheat-slope,  high  up,  alone,  with  the  beauty  and  richness 
of  ' '  Many  Waters' '  beneath  them.  And  when  the  sun  sent 
its  last  ruddy  and  gold  rays  over  the  western  hills,  and 
the  weary  harvesters  plodded  homeward,  Lenore  still 
lingered,  loath  to  break  the  spell.  For  on  the  way  home, 
she  divined,  he  would  tell  her  he  was  soon  to  leave. 

Sunset  and  evening  star!  Their  beauty  and  serenity 
pervaded  Lenore's  soul.  Surely  there  was  a  life  some- 

263 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

where  else,  beyond  in  that  infinite  space.    And  the  defeat 
of  earthly  dreams  was  endurable. 

They  walked  back  down  the  wheat  lanes  hand  in  hand, 
as  dusk  shadowed  the  valley;  and  when  they  reached  the 
house  he  told  her  gently  that  he  must  go. 

"But — you  will  stay  to-night?"  she  whispered. 

"No.  It's  all  arranged,"  he  replied,  thickly.  " They're 
to  drive  me  over — my  train's  due  at  eight.  .  .  .  I've  kept 
it — till  the  last  few  minutes." 

They  went  in  together. 

"We're  too  late  for  dinner,"  said  Lenore,  but  she  was 
not  thinking  of  that,  and  she  paused  with  head  bent. 
4<I — I  want  to  say  good-by  to  you — here."  She  pointed 
to  the  dim,  curtained  entrance  of  the  living-room. 

"I'd  like  that,  too,"  he  replied.  "I'll  go  up  and  get 
my  bag.  Wait." 

Lenore  slowly  stepped  to  that  shadowed  spot  beyond 
the  curtains  where  she  had  told  her  love  to  Dorn;  and  there 
she  stood,  praying  and  fighting  for  strength  to  let  him  go, 
for  power  to  conceal  her  pain.  The  one  great  thing  she 
could  do  was  to  show  him  that  she  would  not  stand  in  the 
way  of  his  duty  to  himself.  She  realized  then  that  if  he 
had  told  her  cooner,  if  he  were  going  to  remain  one  more 
hour  at  "Many  Waters,"  she  would  break  down  and  be 
seech  him  not  to  leave  her. 

She  saw  him  come  down-stairs  with  his  small  hand-bag, 
which  he  set  down.  His  face  was  white.  His  eyes  burned. 
But  her  woman's  love  made  her  divine  that  this  was  not 
a  shock  to  his  soul,  as  it  was  to  hers,  but  stimulation — a 
man's  strange  spiritual  accounting  to  his  fellow-men. 

He  went  first  into  the  dining-room,  and  Lenore  heard  her 
mother's  and  sisters'  voices  in  reply  to  his.  Presently 
he  came  out  to  enter  her  father's  study.  Lenore  listened, 
but  heard  no  sound  there.  Outside,  a  motor-car  creaked 
and  hummed  by  the  window,  to  stop  by  the  side  porch. 
Then  the  door  of  her  father's  study  opened  and  closed, 
and  Dorn  came  to  where  she  was  standing. 

264 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Lenore  did  precisely  as  she  had  done  a  few  nights  be 
fore,  when  she  had  changed  the  world  for  him.  But, 
following  her  kiss,  there  was  a  terrible  instant  when,  with 
r>? r  arms  around  his  neck,  she  went  blind  at  the  realization 
cf  loss.  She  held  to  him  with  a  savage  intensity  of  posses 
sion.  It  was  like  giving  up  life.  She  knew  then,  as  never 
before,  that  she  had  the  power  to  keep  him  at  her  side. 
But  a  thought  saved  her  from  exerting  it — the  thought 
that  she  could  not  make  him  less  than  other  men — and 
so  she  conquered. 

"Lenore,  I  want  you  to  think  always — how  you  loved 
me,"  he  said. 

"  Loved  you?  Oh,  my  boy !  It  seems  your  lot  has  been 
hard.  You've  toiled — you've  lost  all — and  now  .  .  .  ' 

"Listen,"  he  interrupted,  and  she  had  never  heard  his 
voice  like  that.  "The  thousands  of  boys  who  go  to 
€ght  regard  it  a  duty.  For  our  country!  .  .  .  I  had  that, 
'but  more.  .  .  .  My  father  was  German  .  .  .  and  he  was 
a  traitor.  The  horror  for  me  is  that  I  hate  what  is  German 
in  me.  ...  I  will  have  to  kill  that.  But  you've  helped 
me.  ...  I  know  I'm  American.  I'll  do  my  duty,  what 
ever  it  is.  I  would  have  gone  to  war  only  a  beast  with  my 
soul  killed  before  I  ever  got  there.  .  .  .  With  no  hope — 
no  possibility  of  return!  .  .  .  But  you  love  me!  .  .  . 
Can't  you  see — how  great  the  difference?" 

Lenore  understood  and  felt  it  in  his  happiness.  "Yes, 
Kurt,  I  know.  .  .  .  Thank  God,  I've  helped  you.  ...  I 
want  you  to  go.  I'll  pray  always.  I  believe  you  will 
come  back  to  me.  .  .  .  Life  could  not  be  so  utterly  cruel 
..."  She  broke  off. 

"Life  can't  rob  me  now — nor  death,"  he  cried,  in  exal 
tation.  "I  have  your  love.  Your  face  will  always  be 
with  me — as  now — lovely  and  brave!  .  .  .  Not  a  tear! 
.  .  .  And  only  that  sweet  smile  like  an  angel's!  .  .  . 
Oh,  Lenore,  what  a  girl  you  are!" 

"Say  good-by— and  go,"  she  faltered.  Another  mo 
ment  would  see  her  weaken. 

265 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Yes,  I  must  hurry."  His  voice  was  a  whisper — almost 
gone.  He  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Lenore — my  promised 
wife — my  star  for  all  the  black  nights — God  bless  you — 
keep  you!  .  t  .  Good-by!" 

She  spent  all  her  strength  in  her  embrace,  all  her  soul 
in  the  passion  of  her  farewell  kiss.  Then  she  stood  alone, 
tottering,  sinking.  The  swift  steps,  now  heavy  and  un 
even,  passed  out  of  the  hall — the  door  closed — the  motor 
car  creaked  and  rolled  away — the  droning  hum  ceased. 

For  a  moment  of  despairing  shock,  before  the  storm 
broke,  Lenore  blindly  wavered  there,  unable  to  move  from 
the  spot  that  had  seen  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  her 
brief  hour  of  love.  Then  she  summoned  strength  to  drag 
herself  to  her  room,  to  lock  her  door. 

Alone !  In  the  merciful  darkness  and  silence  and  loneli 
ness!  .  .  .  She  need  not  lie  nor  play  false  nor  fool  herself 
here.  She  had  let  him  go!  Inconceivable  and  monstrous 
truth!  For  what?  ...  It  was  not  now  with  her,  that 
deceiving  spirit  which  had  made  her  brave.  But  she 
was  a  woman.  She  fell  upon  her  knees  beside  her  bed, 
shuddering. 

That  moment  was  the  beginning  of  her  sacrifice,  the 
sacrifice  she  shared  in  common  now  with  thousands  of 
other  women.  Before  she  had  pitied;  now  she  suffered. 
And  all  that  was  sweet,  loving,  noble,  and  motherly — 
all  that  was  womanly — rose  to  meet  the  stretch  of  gray 
future,  with  its  endless  suspense  and  torturing  fear,  its 
face  of  courage  for  the  light  of  day,  its  despair  for  the 
lonely  night,  and  its  vague  faith  in  the  lessons  of  life,  its 
possible  and  sustaining  and  eternal  hope  of  God. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

CAMP ,  October  — . 

DEAR  SISTER  LENORE,— It's  been  long  since  I  wrot* 
you.  I'm  sorry,  dear.  But — I  haven't  just  been  in  shape 
to  write.  Have  been  transferred  to  a  training-camp  not  far 
from  New  York.  I  don't  like  it.  The  air  is  raw,  penetrating, 
different  from  our  high  mountain  air  in  the  West.  So  many 
gray,  gloomy  days!  And  wet — why  you  never  saw  a  rain  in 
Washington!  Fine  bunch  of  boys,  though.  We  get  up  in  the 
morning  at  4:30.  Sweep  the  streets  of  the  camp!  I'm  glad  to 
get  up  and  sweep,  for  I'm  near  frozen  long  before  daylight. 
Yesterday  I  peeled  potatoes  till  my  hands  were  cramped. 
Nine  million  spuds,  I  guess!  I'm  wearing  citizen's  clothes — too 
thin,  by  gosh ! — and  sleeping  in  a  tent,  on  a  canvas  cot,  with  one 
blanket.  Wouldn't  care  a  —  (scoose  me,  sis) — I  wouldn't  mind 
if  I  had  a  real  gun,  and  some  real  fighting  to  look  forward  to. 
Some  life,  I  don't  think!  But  I  meant  to  tell  you  why  I'm  here. 

You  remember  how  I  always  took  to  cowboys.  Well,  I  got 
chummy  with  a  big  cow  puncher  from  Montana.  His  name  was 
Andersen.  Isn't  that  queer?  His  name  same  as  mine  except 
for  the  last  e  where  I  have  o.  He's  a  Swede  or  Norwegian. 
True-blue  American?  Well,  I  should  smile.  Like  all  cowboys! 
He's  six  feet  four,  broad  as  a  door,  with  a  flat  head  of  an  Indian, 
and  a  huge,  bulging  chin.  Not  real  handsome,  but  say!  he's  one 
of  the  finest  fellows  that  ever  lived.  We  call  him  Montana. 

There  were  a  lot  of  rough-necks  in  our  outfit,  and  right  away 
I  got  in  bad.  You  know  I  never  was  much  on  holding  my  tem 
per.  Anyway,  I  got  licked  powerful  fine,  as  dad  would  say, 
and  I'd  been  all  beaten  up  but  for  Montana.  That  made  us  two 
fast  friends,  and  sure  some  enemies,  you  bet. 

We  had  the  tough  luck  to  run  into  six  of  the  rough-necks, 
just  outside  of  the  little  town,  where  they'd  been  drinking.  I 
never  heard  the  name  of  one  of  that  outfit.  We  weren't  ac 
quainted  at  all.  Strange  how  they  changed  my  soldier  career, 
right  at  the  start!  This  day,  when  we  met  them,  they  got  fresh, 
and  of  course  I  had  to  start  something.  I  soaked  that  rough- 
18  267 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

neck,  sis,  and  don't  you  forget  it.  Well,  it  was  a  fight,  sure.  I 
got  laid  out — not  knocked  out,  for  I  could  see — but  I  wasn't  any 
help  to  pard  Montana.  It  looked  as  if  he  didn't  need  any. 
The  rough-necks  jumped  him.  Then,  one  after  another,  he 
piled  them  up  in  the  road.  Just  a  swing — and  down  went  each 
one — cold.  But  the  fellow  I  hit  came  to  and,  grabbing  up  a 
pick-handle,  with  all  his  might  he  soaked  Montana  over  the 
head.  What  an  awful  crack!  Montana  went  down,  and  there 
was  blood,  everywhere. 

They  took  Montana  to  the  hospital,  sewed  up  his  head.  It 
wasn't  long  before  he  seemed  all  right  again,  but  he  told  me 
sometimes  he  felt  queer.  Then  they  put  us  on  a  troop-train, 
with  boys  from  California  and  all  over,  and  we  came  East.  I 
haven't  seen  any  of  those  other  Western  boys,  though,  since  we 
got  here. 

One  day,  without  any  warning,  Montana  keeled  over,  down  and 
out.  Paralysis!  They  took  him  to  a  hospital  in  New  York.  No 
hope,  the  doctors  said,  and  he  was  getting  worse  all  the  time. 
But  some  New  York  surgeon  advised  operation,  anyway.  So 
they  opened  that  healed-over  place  in  his  head,  where  the  pick- 
handle  hit — and  what  do  you  think  they  found?  A  splinter  off 
that  pick-handle,  stuck  two  inches  under  his  skull,  in  his  brain! 
They  took  it  out.  Every  day  they  expected  Montana  to  die. 
But  he  didn't.  But  he  will  die.  I  went  over  to  see  him.  He's 
unconscious  part  of  the  time — crazy  the  rest.  No  part  of  his 
right  side  moves!  It  broke  me  all  up.  Why  couldn't  that  soak 
he  got  have  been  on  the  Kaiser's  head? 

I  tell  you,  Lenore,  a  fellow  has  his  eye  teeth  cut  in  this  getting 
ready  to  go  to  war.  It  makes  me  sick.  I  enlisted  to  fight,  not 
to  be  chased  into  a  climate  that  doesn't  agree  with  me — not 
to  sweep  roads  and  juggle  a  wooden  gun.  There  are  a  lot  of 
things,  but  say!  I've  got  to  cut  out  that  kind  of  talk. 

I  feel  almost  as  far  away  from  you  all  as  if  I  were  in  China. 
But  I'm  nearer  France!  I  hope  you're  well  and  standing  pat, 
Lenore.  Remember,  you're  dad's  white  hope.  I  was  the  black 
sheep,  you  know.  Tell  him  I  don't  regard  my  transfer  as  a 
disgrace.  The  officers  didn't  and  he  needn't.  Give  my  love  to 
mother  and  the  girls.  Tell  them  not  to  worry.  Maybe  the 
war  will  be  over  before —  I'll  write  you  often  now,  so  cheer  up. 

Your  loving  brother, 

JIM. 
268 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 


CAMP ,  October — 

MY  DEAREST  LENORE, — If  my  writing  is  not  very  legible  it 
is  because  my  hand  shakes  when  I  begin  this  sweet  and  sacred 
privilege  of  writing  to  my  promised  wife.  My  other  letter  was 
short,  and  this  is  the  second  in  the  weeks  since  I  left  you.  What 
an  endless  time!  You  must  understand  and  forgive  me  for  not 
writing  oftener  and  for  not  giving  you  definite  address. 

I  did  not  want  to  be  in  a  Western  regiment,  for  reasons  hard 
to  understand.  I  enlisted  in  New  York,  and  am  trying  hard  to 
get  into  the  Rainbow  Division,  with  some  hope  of  success. 
There  is  nothing  to  me  in  being  a  member  of  a  crack  regiment, 
but  it  seems  that  this  one  will  see  action  ^first  of  all  American 
units.  I  don't  want  to  be  an  officer,  either. 

How  will  it  be  possible  for  me  to  write  you  as  I  want  to — 
letters  that  will  be  free  of  the  plague  of  myself — letters  that 
you  can  treasure  if  I  never  come  back?  Sleeping  and  waking,  I 
never  forget  the  wonderful  truth  of  your  love  for  me.  It  did 
not  seem  real  when  I  was  with  you,  but,  now  that  we  are  sepa 
rated,  I  know  that  it  is  real.  Mostly  my  mind  contains  only 
two  things — this  constant  memory  of  you,  and  that  other  ter 
rible  thing  of  which  I  will  not  speak.  All  else  that  I  think  or  do 
seems  to  be  mechanical. 

The  work,  the  training,  is  not  difficult  for  me,  though  sc  many 
boys  find  it  desperately  hard.  You  know  I  followed  a  plow,  and 
that  is  real  toil.  Right  now  I  see  the  brown  fallow  hills  and  the 
great  squares  of  gold.  But  visions  or  thoughts  of  home  are  rare. 
That  is  well,  for  they  hurt  like  a  stab.  I  cannot  think  now  of  a 
single  thing  connected  with  my  training  here  that  I  want  to  tell 
you.  Yet  some  things  I  must  tell.  For  instance,  we  hava 
different  instructors,  and  naturally  some  are  more  forcible  than 
others.  We  have  one  at  whom  the  boys  laugh.  He  tickles 
them.  They  like  him.  But  he  is  an  ordeal  for  me.  The  reason 
is  that  in  our  first  bayonet  practice,  when  we  rushed  and  thrust 
a  stuffed  bag,  he  made  us  yell,  "God  damn  you,  German — die!" 
I  don't  imagine  this  to  be  general  practice  in  army  exercises, 
but  the  fact  is  he  started  us  that  way.  I  can't  forget.  When  I 
begin  to  charge  with  a  bayonet  those  words  leap  silently,  but 
terribly,  to  my  lips.  Think  of  this  as  reality,  Lenore — a  sad 
and  incomprehensible  truth  in  1917.  All  in  me  that  is  spiritual, 
reasonable,  all  that  was  once  hopeful,  revolts  at  this  actuality 


TEE  DESERT  OF  IF  PI  EAT 

and  its  meaning.  But  there  is  another  side,  that  dark  one, 
which  revels  in  anticipation.  It  is  the  cave-man  in  me,  hiding 
by  night,  waiting  with  a  bludgeon  to  slay.  I  am  beginning  to  be 
struck  by  the  gradual  change  in  my  comrades.  I  fancied  that 
I  alone  had  suffered  a  retrogression.  I  have  a  deep  conscious 
ness  of  baseness  that  is  going  to  keep  me  aloof  from  them.  I 
seem  to  be  alone  with  my  own  soul.  Yet  I  seem  to  be  abnor 
mally  keen  to  impressions.  I  feel  what  is  going  on  in  the  soldiers' 
minds,  and  it  shocks  me,  sets  me  wondering,  forces  me  to  doubt 
myself.  I  keep  saying  it  must  be  my  peculiar  way  of  looking 
•Vt  things. 

Lenore,  I  remember  your  appeal  to  me.  Shall  I  ever  forget 
your  sweet  face — your  sad  eyes  when  you  bade  me  hope  in  God? 
—I  am  trying,  but  I  do  not  see  God  yet.  Perhaps  that  is  because 
of  my  morbidness — my  limitations.  Perhaps  I  will  face  him 
Over  there,  when  I  go  down  into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow. 
One  thing,  however,  I  do  begin  to  see  is  that  there  is  a  divinity 
iin  men.  Slowly  something  divine  is  revealing  itself  to  me.  To 
give  up  work,  property,  friends,  sister,  mother,  home,  sweetheart, 
to  sacrifice  all  and  go  out  to  fight  for  country,  for  honor — that 
indeed  is  divine .  It  is  beautiful.  It  inspires  a  man  and  lifts  his 
head.  But,  alas!  if  he  is  a  thinking  man,  when  he  comes  in 
contact  with  the  actual  physical  preparation  for  war,  he  finds 
that  the  divinity  was  the  hour  of  his  sacrifice  and  that,  to  become 
a  good  soldier,  he  must  change,  forget,  grow  hard,  strong,  merci 
less,  brutal,  humorous,  and  callous,  all  of  which  is  to  say  base. 
I  see  boys  who  are  tender-hearted,  who  love  life,  who 'were  born 
sufferers,  who  cannot  inflict  pain!  How  many  silent  cries  of 
protest,  of  wonder,  of  agony,  must  go  up  in  the  night  over  this 
camp!  The  sum  of  them  would  be  monstrous.  The  sound  of 
them,  if  voiced,  would  be  a  clarion  blast  to  the  world.  It  is 
sacrifice  that  is  divine,  and  not  the  making  of  an  efficient  soldier. 

I  shall  write  you  endlessly.  The  action  of  writing  relieves 
me.  I  feel  less  burdened  now.  Sometines  I  cannot  bear  the 
burden  of  all  this  unintelligible  consciousness.  My  mind  is  not 
large  enough.  Sometimes  I  feel  that  I  am  going  to  be  every 
soldier  and  every  enemy — each  one  in  his  strife  or  his  drifting  or 
his  agony  or  his  death.  But  despite  that  feeling  I  seem  alone  in 
a  horde.  I  make  no  friends.  I  have  no  way  to  pass  my  leisure  but 
writing.  I  can  hardly  read  at  all.  When  off  duty  the  boys  amuse 
^ismselves  in  a  hundred  ways — going  to  town,  the  theaters,  and 

270 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

movies;  chasing  the  girls  (especially  that,  to  judge  by  theii 
talk);  play,  boxing;  games;  and  I  am  sorry  to  add,  many  of 
*hem  gamble  and  drink.  But  I  cannot  do  any  of  these  things. 
I  cannot  forget  what  I  am  here  for.  I  cannot  forget  that  I  am 
training  to  kill  men.  Never  do  I  forget  that  soon  I  will  face 
death.  What  a  terrible,  strange,  vague  thrill  that  sends  shiver 
ing  over  me!  Amusement  and  forgetfulness  are  past  for  Kurt 
Dorn.  I  am  concerned  with  my  soul.  I  am  fighting  that  black 
passion  which  makes  of  me  a  sleepless  watcher  and  thinker. 

If  this  war  only  lets  me  live  long  enough  to  understand  its 
meaning!  Perhaps  that  meaning  will  be  the  meaning  of  life, 
in  which  case  I  am  longing  for  the  unattainable.  But  underneath 
it  all  must  be  a  colossal  movement  of  evolution,  of  spiritual  growth 
— or  of  retrogression.  Who  knows?  When  I  ask  myself  what 
I  am  going  to  fight  for,  I  answer — for  my  country,  as  a  patriot — 
for  my  hate,  as  an  individual.  My  time  is  almost  up.  I  go  on 
duty.  The  rain  is  roaring  on  the  thin  roof.  How  it  rains  in 
this  East!  Whole  days  and  nights  it  pours.  I  cannot  help 
but  think  of  my  desert  hills,  always  so  barren  and  yellow,  with 
the  dust-clouds  whirling.  One  day  of  this  rain,  useless  and 
wasted  here,  would  have  saved  the  Bend  crop  of  wheat.  Nature 
is  almost  as  inscrutable  as  God. 

Lenore,  good-by  for  this  time.  Think  of  me,  but  not  as  lonely 
or  unhappy  or  uncomfortable  out  there  in  the  cold,  raw,  black, 
wet  night.  I  will  be  neither.  Some  one — a  spirit — will  keep 
beside  me  as  I  step  the  beat.  I  have  put  unhappiness  behind 
me.  And  no  rain  or  mud  or  chill  will  ever  feaze  me. 
Yours  with  love, 

KURT  DORN. 


CAMP ,  October  — . 

DEAR  SISTER  LENORE, — After  that  little  letter  of  yours  I  could 
do  nothing  more  than  look  up  another  pin  like  the  one  I  sent 
Kathleen.  I  inclose  it.  Hope  you  will  wear  it. 

I'm  very  curious  to  see  what  your  package  contains.  It 
hasn't  arrived  yet.  All  the  mail  comes  late.  That  makes  the 
boys  sore. 

The  weather  hasn't  been  so  wet  lately  as  when  I  last  wrote, 
but  it's  colder.  Believe  me  these  tents  are  not  steam-heated! 
But  we  grin  and  try  to  look  happy.  It's  not  the  most  cheerful 

271 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

thing  to  hear  the  old  call  in  the  morning  and  tumble  out  in  the 
cold  gray  dawn.  Say!  I've  got  two  blankets  now.  Two!  Just 
time  for  mess,  then  we  hike  down  the  road.  I'm  in  for  artillery 
now,  I  guess.  The  air  service  really  fascinated  me,  but  you  can't 
have  what  you  want  in  this  business. 

Saturday. — This  letter  will  be  in  sections.  No  use  sending 
you  a  little  dab  of  news  now  and  then.  I'll  write  when  I  can,  and 
mail  when  the  letter  assumes  real  proportions.  Your  package 
arrived  and  I  was  delighted.  I  think  I  slept  better  last  night  on 
your  little  pillow  than  any  night  since  we  were  called  out.  My 
pillow  before  was  your  sleeveless  jersey. 

It's  after  three  A.M.  and  I'm  on  guard — that  is,  battery  guard, 
and  I  have  to  be  up  from  midnight  to  reveille,  not  on  a  post, 
but  in  my  tent,  so  that  if  any  of  my  men  (I'm  a  corporal  now), 
whom  I  relieve  every  two  hours,  get  into  trouble  they  can  call 
me.  Non-coms,  go  on  guard  once  in  six  days,  so  about  every 
sixth  night  I  get  along  with  no  sleep. 

We  have  been  ordered  to  do  away  with  all  personal  property 
except  shaving  outfit  and  absolutely  necessary  articles.  We 
can't  keep  a  foot-locker,  trunk,  valise,  or  even  an  ordinary  soap 
box  in  our  tents.  Everything  must  be  put  in  one  barrack  bag,  a 
canvas  sack  just  like  a  laundry-bag. 

Thank  the  girls  for  the  silk  handkerchief  and  candy  they  sent. 
I  sure  have  the  sweetest  sisters  of  any  boy  I  know.  I  never 
appreciated  them  when  I  had  them.  I'm  learning  bitter  truths 
these  days.  And  tell  mother  I'll  write  her  soon.  Thank  her 
for  the  pajamas  and  the  napkins.  Tell  her  I'm  sorry  a  soldier 
has  no  use  for  ei-ther. 

This  morning  I  did  my  washing  of  the  past  two  weeks,  and  I 
was  so  busy  that  I  didn't  hear  the  bugle  blow,  and  thereby  got 
en  the  "black  book."  Which  means  that  I  won't  get  any 
time  off  soon. 

Before  I  forget,  Lenore,  let  me  tell  you  that  I've  taken  ten 
thousand  dollars'  life  insurance  from  the  government,  in  your 
favor  as  beneficiary.  This  costs  me  only  about  six  and  a  half  dol 
lars  per  month,  and  in  case  of  my  death—  Well,  I'm  a  soldier, 
now.  Please  tell  Rose  I've  taken  a  fifty-dollar  Liberty  Bond  of 
the  new  issue  for  her.  This  I'm  paying  at  the  rate  of  five  dollars 
per  month  and  it  will  be  delivered  to  her  at  the  end  of  ten  months. 
Both  of  these,  of  course,  I'm  paying  out  of  my  government  pay  as 
a  soldier.  The  money  dad  sent  me  I  spent  like  water,  lent  to 

272 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

the  boys,  threw  away.  Tell  him  not  to  send  me  any  more.  Tell 
him  the  time  has  come  for  Jim  Anderson  to  make  good.  I've  a 
rich  dad  and  he's  the  best  dad  any  harum-scarum  boy  ever  had. 
I'm  going  to  prove  more  than  one  thing  this  trip. 

We  hear  so  many  rumors,  and  none  of  them  ever  come  true. 
One  of  them  is  funny — that  we  have  so  many  rich  men  with 
political  influence  in  our  regiment  that  we  will  never  get  to 
France!  Isn't  that  the  limit?  But  it's  funny  because,  if  we  have 
rich  men,  I'd  like  to  see  them.'  Still,  there  are  thirty  thousand 
soldiers  here,  and  in  my  neck  of  the  woods  such  rumors  are 
laughed  and  cussed  at.  We  hear  also  that  we're  going  to  be 
ordered  South.  I  wish  that  would  come  true.  It's  so  cold  and 
drab  and  muddy  and  monotonous. 

My  friend  Montana  fooled  everybody.  He  didn't  die.  He 
seems  to  be  hanging  on.  Lately  he  recovered  consciousness. 
Told  me  he  had  no  feeling  on  his  left  side,  except  sometimes  his 
hand  itched,  you  know,  like  prickly  needles.  But  Montana  will 
never  be  any  good  again.  That  fine  big  cowboy !  He's  been  one 
grand  soldier.  It  sickens  me  sometimes  to  think  of  the  difference 
between  what  thrilled  me  about  this  war  game  and  what  we  get. 
Maybe,  though —  There  goes  my  call.  I  must  close.  Love  to 
all.  JIM. 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  October  — . 

DEAREST  LENORE, — It  seems  about  time  that  I  had  a  letter 
from  you.  I'm  sure  letters  are  on  the  way,  but  they  do  not  come 
quickly.  The  boys  complain  of  the  mail  service.  Isn't  it 
strange  that  there  is  not  a  soul  to  write  me  except  you?  Jeff, 
my  farm-hand,  will  write  me  whenever  I  write  him,  which  I 
haven't  done  yet. 

I'm  on  duty  here  in  New  York  at  an  armory  bazaar.  It's 
certainly  the  irony  of  fate.  Why  did  the  officer  pick  on  me,  I'd 
like  to  know?  But  I've  never  complained  of  an  order  so  far,  and 
I'm  standing  it.  Several  of  us — and  they  chose  the  husky  boys 
— have  been  sent  over  here,  for  absolutely  no  purpose  that  I  can 
see  except  to  exhibit  ourselves  in  uniform.  It's  a  woman's 
bazaar,  to  raise  money  for  war-relief  work  and  so  on.  The  hall  is 
almost  as  large  as  that  field  back  of  your  house,  and  every  night 
it  is  packed  with  people,  mostly  young.  My  comrades  are 
having  fun  out  of  it,  but  I  feel  like  a  fish  out  of  water. 

Just  the  same,  Lenore,  I'm  learning  more  every  day.  If  I 

273 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

?7as  not  so  disgusted  I'd  think  this  was  a  wonderful  opportunity. 
A.S  it  is,  I  regard  it  only  as  an  experience  over  which  I  have  no 
control  and  that  interests  me  in  spite  of  myself.  New  York  is 
an  awful  place — endless,  narrow,  torn-up  streets  crowded  with 
hurrying  throngs,  taxicabs,  cars,  and  full  of  noise  and  dust.  I 
am  always  choked  for  air.  And  these  streets  reek.  Where  do 
the  people  come  from  and  where  are  they  going?  They  look 
wild,  as  if  they  had  to  go  somewhere,  but  did  not  know  where 
that  was.  I've  no  time  or  inclination  to  see  New  York,  though 
under  happier  circumstances  I  think  I'd  like  to. 

People  in  the  East  seem  strange  to  me.  Still,  as  I  never 
mingled  with  many  people  in  the  West,  I  cannot  say  truly 
whether  Eastern  people  are  different  from  Western  people.  But 
I  thir^k  so.  Anyway,  while  I  was  in  Spokane,  Portland,  San 
Francisco,  and  Los  Angeles  I  did  not  think  people  were  greatly 
concerned  about  the  war.  Denver  people  appeared  not  to  realize 
there  was  a  war.  But  here  in  New  York  everything  is  war. 
You  can't  escape  it.  You  see  that  war  will  soon  obsess  rich  and 
poor,  alien  and  neutral  and  belligerent,  pacifist  and  militarist. 
Sinc^  I  wrote  you  last  I've  tried  to  read  the  newspapers  sent  to 
us.  It's  hard  to  tell  you  which  makes  me  the  sicker — the  prattle 
of  the  pacifist  or  the  mathematics  of  the  military  experts.  Both 
misa  the  spirit  of  men.  Neither  has  any  soul.  I  think  the 
German  minds  must  all  be  mathematical. 

But  I  want  to  write  about  the  women  and  girls  I  see,  here  in 
New  York,  in  the  camps  and  towns,  on  the  trains,  everywhere. 
Lenore,  the  war  has  thrown  them  off  their  balance.  I  have  seen 
and  studied  at  close  hand  women  of  all  classes.  Believe  me,  as 
the  boys  say,  I  have  thought  more  than  twice  whether  or  not  I 
would  tell  you  the  stark  truth.  But  somehow  I  am  impelled  to. 
I  have  an  overwhelming  conviction  that  all  American  girls  and 
mothers  should  know  what  the  truth  is.  They  will  never  be 
told,  Lenore,  and  most  would  never  believe  if  they  were  told. 
And  that  is  one  thing  wrong  with  people. 

I  believe  every  soldier,  from  the  time  he  enlists  until  the  war 
is  ended,  should  be  kept  away  from  women.  This  is  a  sweeping 
statement  and  you  must  take  into  account  the  mind  of  him  who 
makes  it.  But  I  am  not  leaping  at  conclusions.  The  soldier 
toys  have  terrible  peril  facing  them  long  before  they  get  to  the 
trenches.  Not  all,  or  nearly  all,  the  soldiers  are  going  to  be  vi- 
ially  affected  by  the  rottenness  of  great  cities  or  by  the  mushroom 

274 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

hotbeds  of  vice  springing  up  near  the  camps.  These  evils  exist 
and  are  being  opposed  by  military  and  government,  by  police 
and  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and  good  influence  of  good  people.  But  they 
will  never  wholly  stamp  it  out. 

Nor  do  I  want  to  say  much  about  the  society  women  who  are 
"rushing"  the  officers.  There  may  be  one  here  and  there  with 
her  heart  in  the  right  place,  but  with  most  of  them  it  must  be, 
first,  this  something  about  war  that  has  unbalanced  women; 
and  secondly,  a  fad,  a  novelty,  a  new  sentimental  stunt,  a  fashion 
set  by  some  leader.  Likewise  I  want  to  say  but  little  about  the 
horde  of  common,  street-chasing,  rattled-brained  women  and 
girls  who  lie  in  wait  for  soldiers  at  every  corner,  so  to  speak.  All 
these,  to  be  sure,  may  be  unconsciously  actuated  by  motives 
that  do  not  appear  on  the  surface;  and  if  this  be  true,  their 
actions  are  less  bold,  less  raw  than  they  look. 

What  I  want  to  dwell  upon  is  my  impression  of  something 
strange,  unbalanced,  incomprehensible,  about  the  frank  conduct 
of  so  many  well-educated,  refined,  and  good  women  I  see;  and 
about  the  eagerness,  restlessness,  the  singular  response  of  nice 
girls  to  situations  that  are  not  natural. 

To-night  a  handsome,  stylishly  gowned  woman  of  about  thirty 
came  up  to  me  with  a  radiant  smile  and  a  strange  brightness  in 
her  eyes.  There  were  five  hundred  couples  dancing  on  the 
floor,  and  the  music  and  sound  of  sliding  feet  made  it  difficult  to 
hear  her.  She  said:  "  You  handsome  soldier  boy!  Come  dance 
with  me?"  I  replied  politely  that  I  did  not  dance.  Then  she 
took  hold  of  me  and  said,  "I'll  teach  you."  I  saw  a  wedding- 
ring  on  the  hand  she  laid  on  my  arm.  Then  I  looked  straight  at 
her,  "  Madam,  very  soon  I'll  be  learning  the  dance  of  death  over 
in  France,  and  my  mind's  concerned  with  that."  She  grew  red 
with  anger.  She  seemed  amazed.  And  she  snapped,  "Well, 
you  are  a  queer  soldier!"  Later  I  watched  her  flirting  and  danc 
ing  with  an  officer. 

Overtures  and  advances  innumerable  have  been  made  to  me, 
ranging  from  the  assured  possession-taking  onslaught  like  this 
woman's  to  the  slight,  subtle  something,  felt  more  than  seen, 
of  a  more  complex  nature.  And,  Lenore,  I  blush  to  tell  you  this, 
but  I've  been  mobbed  by  girls.  They  have  a  thousand  ways  of 
letting  a  soldier  know!  I  could  not  begin  to  tell  them.  But  I 
do  not  actually  realize  what  it  is  that  is  conveyed,  that  I  know; 
and  I  am  positive  the  very  large  majority  of  soldiers  misunder- 

275 


THE  DESERT  OF  W 'H 'EAT 

stand.  At  night  I  listen  to  the  talks  of  my  comrades,  and,  well — 
if  the  girls  only  heard !  Many  times  I  go  out  of  hearing,  and  when 
1  cannot  do  that  I  refuse  to  hear. 

Lenore,  I  am  talking  about  nice  girls  now.  I  am  merciless. 
There  are  many  girls  like  you — they  seem  like  you,  though  none 
so  pretty.  I  mean,  you  know,  there  are  certain  manners  and 
distinctions  that  at  once  mark  a  really  nice  girl.  For  a  month 
I've  been  thrown  here  and  there,  so  that  it  seems  I've  seen  as 
many  girls  as  soldiers.  I  have  been  sent  to  different  entertain 
ments  given  for  soldiers.  At  one  place  a  woman  got  up  and  in 
vited  the  girls  to  ask  the  boys  to  dance.  At  another  a  crowd  of 
girls  were  lined  up  wearing  different  ribbons,  and  the  boys 
marched  along  until  each  one  found  the  girl  wearing  a  ribbon  to 
match  the  one  he  wore.  That  was  his  partner.  It  was  inter 
esting  to  see  the  eager,  mischievous,  brooding  eyes  of  these  girls 
as  they  watched  and  waited.  Just  as  interesting  was  it  to  see  this 
boy's  face  when  he  found  his  partner  was  ugly,  and  that  boy  swell 
frith  pride  when  he  found  he  had  picked  a  "winner."  It  was  all 
adventure  for  both  boys  and  girls.  But  I  saw  more  than  that  in 
it.  Whenever  I  could  not  avoid  meeting  a  girl  I  tried  to  be 
agreeable  and  to  talk  about  war,  and  soldiers,  and  what  was 
going  on.  I  did  not  dance,  of  course,  and  I  imagine  more  than 
one  girl  found  me  a  "  queer  soldier." 

It  always  has  touched  me,  though,  to  see  and  feel  the  sweet 
ness,  graciousness,  sympathy,  kindness,  and  that  other  inde 
finable  something,  in  the  girls  I  have  met.  How  they  made  me 
think  of  you,  Lenore !  No  doubt  about  their  hearts,  their  loyalty, 
their  Americanism.  Every  soldier  who  goes  to  France  can  fight 
for  some  girl!  They  make  you  feel  that.  I  believe  I  have  gone 
deeper  than  most  soldiers  in  considering  what  I  will  call  war- 
relation  of  the  sexes.  If  it  is  normal,  then  underneath  it  all  is 
a  tremendous  inscrutable  design  of  nature  or  God.  If  that  be 
true,  actually  true,  then  war  must  be  inevitable  and  right! 
How  horrible!  My  thoughts  confound  me  sometimes.  Any 
way,  the  point  I  want  to  make  is  this :  I  heard  an  officer  tell  an 
irate  father,  whose  two  daughters  had  been  insulted  by  soldiers: 
"My  dear  sir,  it  is  regrettable.  These  men  will  be  punished. 
But  they  are  not  greatly  to  blame,  because  so  many  girls  throw 
themselves  at  their  heads.  Your  daughters  did  not,  of  course, 
but  they  should  not  have  come  here."  That  illustrates  the  fixed 
iea  of  the  military,  all  through  the  ranks — Women  throw  them- 

276 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

selves  at  soldiers!  It  is  true  that  they  do.  But  the  idea  is  false, 
nevertheless,  because  the  mass  of  girls  are  misunderstood. 

Misunderstood! — I  can  tell  you  why.  Surely  the  mass  of 
American  girls  are  nice,  fine,  sweet,  wholesome.  They  are  young. 
The  news  of  war  liberates  something  in  them  that  we  can  find 
no  name  for.  But  it  must  be  noble.  A  soldier!  The  very  name, 
from  childhood,  is  one  to  make  a  girl  thrill.  What  then  the  actual 
thing,  the  uniform,  invested  somehow  with  chivalry  and  courage, 
the  clean-cut  athletic  young  man,  somber  and  fascinating  with  his 
intent  eyes,  his  serious  brow,  or  his  devil-may-care  gallantry, 
the  compelling  presence  of  him  that  breathes  of  his  sacrifice,  of 
his  near  departure  to  privation,  to  squalid,  comfortless  trenches., 
to  the  fire  and  hell  of  war,  to  blood  and  agony  and  death — in  a 
word  to  fight,  fight,  fight  for  women!  ...  So  through  this  beau 
tiful  emotion  women  lose  their  balance  and  many  are  misunder 
stood.  Those  who  would  not  and  could  not  be  bold  are  sus 
ceptible  to  advances  that  in  an  ordinary  time  would  not  affect 
them.  War  invests  a  soldier  with  a  glamour.  Love  at  first 
sight,  flirtations,  rash  intimacies,  quick  engagements,  immediate 
marriages.  The  soldier  who  is  soon  going  away  to  fight  and  per 
haps  to  die  strikes  hard  at  the  very  heart  of  a  girl.  Either  she 
is  not  her  real  self  then,  or  else  she  is  suddenly  transported  to  a 
womanhood  that  is  instinctive, elemental, universal  for  the  future. 
She  feels  what  she  does  not  know.  She  surrenders  because  there 
is  an  imperative  call  to  the  depths  of  her  nature.  She  sacrifices 
because  she  is  the  inspiritor  of  the  soldier,  the  reward  for  his 
loss,  the  savior  of  the  race.  If  women  are  the  spoils  of  barbarous 
conquerors,  they  are  also  the  sinews,  the  strength,  the  soul  of 
defenders. 

And  so,  however  you  look  at  it,  war  means  for  women  sacrifice, 
disillusion,  heartbreak,  agony,  doom.  I  feel  that  so  powerfully 
that  I  am  overcome;  I  am  sick  at  the  gaiety  and  playing;  I  am 
full  of  fear,  wonder,  admiration,  and  hopeless  pity  for  them. 

No  man  can  tell  what  is  going  on  in  the  souls  of  soldiers  while 
noble  women  are  offering  love  and  tenderness,  throwing  them 
selves  upon  the  altar  of  war,  hoping  blindly  to  send  their  great 
spirits  marching  to  the  front.  Perhaps  the  man  who  lives 
through  the  war  will  feel  the  change  in  his  soul  if  he  cannot  tell 
it.  Day  by  day  I  think  I  see  a  change  in  my  comrades.  As  they 
grow  physically  stronger  they  seem  to  grow  spiritually  lesser. 
But  maybe  that  is  only  my  idea.  I  see  evidences  of  fear,  anger, 

277 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

sullenness,  moodiness,  shame.  I  see  a  growing  indifference  to 
fatigue,  toil,  pain.  As  these  boys  harden  physically  they  harden 
mentally.  Always,  'way  off  there  is  the  war,  and  that  seems 
closely  related  to  the  near  duty  here — what  it  takes  to  make  a 
man.  These  fellows  will  measure  men  differently  after  this 
experience  with  sacrifice,  obedience,  labor,  and  pain.  In  that 
they  will  become  great.  But  I  do  not  think  these  things  stimu 
late  a  man's  mind.  Changes  are  going  on  in  me,  some  of  which 
I  am  unable  to  define.  For  instance,  physically  I  am  much 
bigger  and  stronger  than  I  was.  I  weigh  one  hundred  and  eighty 
pounds!  As  for  my  mind,  something  is  always  tugging  at  it. 
I  feel  that  it  grows'  tired.  It  wants  to  forget.  In  spite  of  my 
will,  all  of  these  keen  desires  of  mine  to  know  everything  lag  and 
fail  often,  and  I  catch  myself  drifting.  I  see  and  feel  and  hear 
without  thinking.  I  am  only  an  animal  then.  At  these  times 
sight  of  blood,  or  a  fight,  or  a  plunging  horse,  or  a  broken  leg — 
and  these  sights  are  common — affects  me  little  until  I  am  quick 
ened  and  think  about  the  meaning  of  it  all.  At  such  moments 
I  have  a  revulsion  of  feeling.  With  memory  comes  a  revolt,  and 
so  on,  until  I  am  the  distressed,  inquisitive,  and  morbid  person  I 
am  now.  I  shudder  at  what  war  will  make  me.  Actual  contact 
with  earth,  exploding  guns,  fighting  comrades,  striking  foes,  will 
make  brutes  of  us  all.  It  is  wrong  to  shed  another  man's  blood. 
If  life  was  meant  for  that  why  do  we  have  progress?  I  cannot 
reconcile  a  God  with  all  this  horror,  I  have  misgivings  about  my 
mind.  If  I  feel  so  acutely  here  in  safety  and  comfort,  what  shall 
I  feel  over  there  in  peril  and  agony?  I  fear  I  shall  laugh  at 
death.  Oh,  Lenore,  consider  that !  To  laugh  in  the  ghastly  face 
of  death!  If  I  yield  utterly  to  a  fiendish  joy  of  bloody  combat, 
then  my  mind  will  fail,  and  that  in  itself  would  be  evidence  of 
God. 

I  do  not  read  over  my  letters  to  you.  I  just  write.  Forgive 
me  if  they  are  not  happier.  Every  hour  I  think  of  you.  At 
night  I  see  your  face  in  the  shadow  of  the  tent  wall,  And  I 
love  you  unutterably.  Faithfully, 

KURT  DORN. 

CAMP ,  November  — . 

DEAR  SISTER, — It's  bad  news  I've  got  for  you  this  time. 
Something  bids  me  tell  you,  though  up  to  nowr  I've  kept  un 
pleasant  facts  to  myself. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

The  weather  has  knocked  me  out.  My  cold  came  back,  got 
worse  and  worse.  Three  days  ago  I  had  a  chill  that  lasted  for 
fifteen  minutes.  I  shook  like  a  leaf.  It  left  me,  and  then  I  got  a 
terrible  pain  in  my  side.  But  I  didn't  give  in,  which  I  feel  now 
was  a  mistake.  I  stayed  up  till  I  dropped. 

I'm  here  in  the  hospital.  It's  a  long  shed  with  three  stoves, 
and  a  lot  of  beds  with  other  sick  boys.  My  bed  is  far  away  from 
a  stove.  The  pain  is  bad  yet,  but  duller,  and  I've  fever.  I'm 
pretty  sick,  honey.  Tell  mother  and  dad,  but  not  the  girls. 
Give  my  love  to  all.  And  don't  worry.  It  '11  all  come  right  in 
the  end.  This  beastly  climate's  to  blame. 

Later, — It's  night  now.  I  was  interrupted.  I'll  write  a  few 
more  lines.  Hope  you  can  read  them.  It's  late  and  the  wind 
is  moaning  outside.  It's  so  cold  and  dismal.  The  fellow  in  the 
bed  next  to  me  is  out  of  his  head.  Poor  devil!  He  broke  his 
knee,  and  they  put  off  the  operation — too  busy!  So  few  doctors 
and  so  many  patients !  And  now  he'll  lose  his  leg.  He's  talking 
about  home.  Oh,  Lenore!  Home!  I  never  knew  what  home 
was — till  now. 

I'm  worse  to-night.  But  I'm  always  bad  at  night.  Only, 
to-night  I  feel  strange.  There's  a  weight  on  my  chest,  besides 
the  pain.  That  moan  of  wind  makes  me  feel  so  lonely.  There's 
no  one  here — and  I'm  so  cold.  I've  thought  a  lot  about  you  girls 
and  mother  and  dad.  Tell  dad  I  made  good. 

JIM. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

JIM'S  last  letter  was  not  taken  seriously  by  the  other 
members  of  the  Anderson  family.  The  father  shook 
his  head  dubiously.  "That  ain't  like  Jim,"  but  made  no 
other  comment.  Mrs.  Anderson  sighed.  The  young 
sisters  were  not  given  to  worry.  Lenore,  however,  was 
haunted  by  an  unwritten  meaning  in  her  brother's 
letter. 

Weeks  before,  she  had  written  to  Dorn  and  told  him  to 
hunt  up  Jim.  No  reply  had  yet  come  from  Dorn.  Every 
day  augmented  her  uneasiness,  until  it  was  dreadful  to 
look  for  letters  that  did  not  come.  All  this  fortified  her, 
however,  to  expect  calamity.  Like  a  bolt  out  of  the  clear 

sky  it  came  in  shape  of  a  telegram  from  Camp saying 

that  Jim  was  dying. 

The  shock  prostrated  the  mother.  Jim  had  been  her 
favorite.  Mr.  Anderson  left  at  once  for  the  East.  Lenore 
had  the  care  of  her  mother  and  the  management  of 
"Many  Waters"  on  her  hands,  which  duties  kept  her 
mercifully  occupied.  Mrs.  Anderson,  however,  after  a 
day,  rallied  surprisingly.  Lenore  sensed  in  her  mother 
the  strength  of  the  spirit  that  sacrificed  to  a  noble  and 
universal  cause.  It  seemed  to  be  Mrs.  Anderson's  con 
viction  that  Jim  had  been  shot,  or  injured  by  accident  in 
gun-training,  or  at  least  by  a  horse.  Lenore  did  not  share 
her  mother's  idea  and  was  reluctant  to  dispel  it.  On  the 
evening  of  the  fifth  day  after  Mr.  Anderson's  departure  a 
message  came,  saying  that  he  had  arrived  too  late  to  see 
Jim  alive.  Mrs.  Anderson  bore  the  news  bravely,  though 
she  weakened  perceptibly. 

The  family  waited  then  for  further  news.  None  came. 
Day  after  day  passed.  Then  one  evening,  while  Lenore 
strolled  in  the  gloaming,  Kathleen  came  running  to  burst 

280 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

out  with  the  announcement  of  their  father's  arrival.  He 
had  telephoned  from  Vale  for  a  car  to  meet  him. 

Not  long  after  that,  Lenore,  who  had  gone  to  her  room, 
heard  the  return  of  the  car  and  recognized  her  father's 
voice.  She  ran  down  in  time  to  see  him  being  embraced 
by  the  girls,  and  her  mother  leaning  with  bowed  head  on 
his  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  I  fetched  Jim — back,"  he  said,  steadily,  but  very 
low.  "It's  all  arranged.  .  .  .  An'  we'll  bury  him  to 
morrow." 

"Oh— dad!"  cried  Lenore. 

' '  Hello,  my  girl !"  he  replied,  and  kissed  her.  ' '  I'm  sorry 
to  tell  you  I  couldn't  locate  Kurt  Dorn.  .  .  .  That  New 
York — an'  that  trainin'  camp!" 

He  held  up  his  hands  in  utter  futility  of  expression. 
Lenore's  quick  eyes  noted  his  face  had  grown  thin  and 
haggard,  and  she  made  sure  with  a  pang  that  his  hair 
was  whiter. 

"I'm  sure  glad  to  be  home,"  he  said,  with  a  heavy  ex 
pulsion  of  breath.  "I  want  to  clean  up  an'  have  a  bite  to 
eat." 

Lenore  was  so  disappointed  at  failing  to  hear  from  Dorn 
that  she  did  not  think  how  singular  it  was  her  father  did 
not  tell  more  about  Jim.  Later  he  seemed  more  like  him 
self,  and  told  them  simply  that  Jim  had  contracted  pneu 
monia  and  died  without  any  message  for  his  folk  at  home. 
This  prostrated  Mrs.  Anderson  again. 

Later  Lenore  sought  her  father  in  his  room.  He  could 
not  conceal  from  her  that  he  had  something  heartrending 
on  his  mind.  Then  there  was  more  than  tragedy  in  his 
expression.  Lenore  felt  a  leap  of  fear  at  what  seemed  her 
father's  hidden  anger.  She  appealed  to  him— importuned 
him.  Plainer  it  came  to  her  that  he  wanted  to  relieve 
himself  of  a  burden.  Then  doubling  her  persuasions,  she 
finally  got  him  to  talk. 

."Lenore,  it's  not  been  so  long  ago  that  right  here  in 

28! 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

this  room  Jim  begged  me  to  let  him  enlist.  He  wasn't 
of  age.  But  would  I  let  him  go — to  fight  for  the  honor  of 
our  country — for  the  future  safety  of  our  home?  .  .  . 
We  all  felt  the  boy's  eagerness,  his  fire,  his  patriotism. 
Wayward  as  he's  been,  we  suddenly  were  proud  of  him. 
We  let  him  go.  We  gave  him  up.  He  was  a  part  of  our 
flesh  an'  blood — sent  by  us  Andersons — to  do  our  share." 
Anderson  paused  in  his  halting  speech,  and  swallowed 
hard.  His  white  face  twitched  strangely  and  his  brow 
was  clammy.  Lenore  saw  that  his  piercing  gaze  looked 
far  beyond  her  for  the  instant  that  he  broke  down. 

4 'Jim  was  a  born  fighter,"  the  father  resumed.  "He 
wasn't  vicious.  He  just  had  a  leanin'  to  help  anybody. 
As  a  lad  he  fought  for  his  little  pards— always  on  the  right 
side— an'  he  always  fought  fair.  .  .  .  This  opportunity 
to  train  for  a  soldier  made  a  man  of  him.  He'd  have 
made  his  mark  in  the  war.  Strong  an'  game  an'  fierce, 
he'd  .  .  .  he'd  .  .  .  Well,  he's  dead— he's  dead!  .  .  . 
Four  months  after  enlistment  he's  dead.  .  .  .  An'  he 
never  had  a  rifle  in  his  hands !  He  never  had  his  hands  on 
a  machine-gun  or  a  piece  of  artillery!  ...  He  never  had 
a  uniform!  He  never  had  an  overcoat!  He  never  ..." 
Then  Mr.  Anderson's  voice  shook  so  that  he  had  to 
stop  to  gain  control.  Lenore  was  horrified.  She  felt  a 
burning  stir  within  her. 

"Lemme  get  this— out,"  choked  Anderson,  his  face 
now  livid,  his  veins  bulging.  "  I'm  drove  to  tell  it.  I  was 
near  all  day  locatin'  Jim's  company.  Found  the  tent 
where  he'd  lived.  It  was  cold,  damp,  muddy.  Jim's 
messmates  spoke  high  of  him.  Called  him  a  prince!  .  .  . 
They  all  owed  him  money.  He'd  done  many  a  good  turn 
for  them.  He  had  only  a  thin  blanket,  an'  he  caught  cold. 
All  the  boys  had  colds.  One  night  he  gave  that  blanket  to 
a  boy  Dicker  than  he  was.  Next  day  he  got  worse.  .  .  . 
There  was  miles  an'  miles  of  them  tents.  I  like  to  never 
found  the  hospital  where  they'd  sent  Jim.  An'  then  it 
was  six  o'clock  in  the  mornin'— a  raw,  bleak  day  that  'd 

282 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

freeze  one  of  us  to  the  marrow.  I  had  trouble  gettin'  in. 
But  a  soldier  went  with  me  an' — an'  ..." 

Anderson's  voice  went  to  a  whisper,  and  he  looked  pity 
ingly  at  Lenore. 

"That  hospital  was  a  barn.  No  doctors!  Too  early. 
.  .  .  The  nurses  weren't  in  sight.  I  met  one  later,  an', 
poor  girl !  she  looked  ready  to  drop  herself !  .  .  .  We  found 
Jim  in  one  of  the  little  rooms.  No  heat!  It  was  winter 
there.  .  .  .  Only  a  bed!  .  .  .  Jim  lay  on  the  floor,  dead! 
He'd  fallen  or  pitched  off  the  bed.  He  had  on  only  his 
underclothes  that  he  had  on — when  he — left  home.  .  .  . 
He  was  stiff — an'  must  have — been  dead — a  good  while." 

Lenore  held  out  her  trembling  hands.  "Dead — Jim 
dead — like  that!"  she  faltered. 

"Yes.  He  got  pneumonia,"  replied  Anderson,  hoarsely. 
"The  camp  was  full  of  it." 

"But — my  God!  Were  not  the — the  poor  boys  taken 
care  of?"  implored  Lenore,  faintly. 

"  It's  a  terrible  time.    All  was  done  that  could  be  done !" 

"Then— it  was  all— for  nothing?" 

"All!  All!  Our  boy  an'  many  like  him — the  best 
blood  of  our  country — Western  blood — dead  because  .  .  . 
because  ..." 

Anderson's  voice  failed  him. 

"Oh,  Jim!  Oh,  my  brother!  .  .  .  Dead  like  a  poor 
neglected  dog!  Jim — who  enlisted  to  fight — for — " 

Lenore  broke  down  then  and  hurried  away  to  her  room. 

With  great  difficulty  Mrs.  Anderson  was  revived,  and  it 
became  manifest  that  the  prop  upon  which  she  had  leaned 
had  been  slipped  from  under  her.  The  spirit  which  had 
made  her  strong  to  endure  the  death  of  her  boy  failed 
when  the  sordid  bald  truth  of  a  miserable  and  horrible 
waste  of  life  gave  the  lie  to  the  splendid  fighting  chance 
Jim  had  dreamed  of. 

When  Anderson  realized  that  she  was  fading  daily  he 
exhausted  himself  in  long  expositions  of  the  illness  and 
injury  and  death  common  to  armies  in  the  making.  More 
19  283 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

deaths  came  from  tnese  causes  than  from  war.  It  was 
the  elision  of  the  weaker  element — the  survival  of  the 
fittest;  and  some,  indeed  very  many,  mothers  must  lose 
their  sons  that  way.  The  government  was  sound  at  the 
core,  he  claimed;  and  his  own  rage  was  at  the  few  incom 
petents  and  profiteers.  These  must  be  weeded  out— a 
process  that  was  going  on.  The  gigantic  task  of  a  govern 
ment  to  draft  and  prepare  a  great  army  and  navy  was 
something  beyond  the  grasp  of  ordinary  minds.  Anderson 
talked  about  what  he  had  seen  and  heard,  proving  the 
wonderful  stride  already  made.  But  all  that  he  said  now 
made  no  impression  upon  Mrs.  Anderson.  She  had  made 
her  supreme  sacrifice  for  a  certain  end,  and  that  was  as 
much  the  boy's  fiery  ambition  to  fight  as  it  was  her  duty, 
common  with  other  mothers,  to  furnish  a  man  at  the  front. 
What  a  hopeless,  awful  sacrifice!  She  sank  under  it. 

Those  were  trying  days  for  Lenore,  just  succeeding  her 
father's  return;  and  she  had  little  time  to  think  of  her 
self.  When  the  mail  came,  day  after  day,  without  a  letter 
from  Dorn,  she  felt  the  pang  in  her  breast  grow  heavier. 
Intimations  crowded  upon  her  of  impending  troubles 
that  would  make  the  present  ones  seem  light. 

It  was  not  long  until  the  mother  was  laid  to  rest  be 
side  the  son. 

When  that  day  ended,  Lenore  and  her  father  faced  each 
other  in  her  room,  where  he  had  always  been  wont  to 
come  for  sympathy.  They  gazed  at  each  other,  with 
hard,  dry  eyes.  Stark-naked  truth — grim  reality — the 
nature  of  this  catastrophe — the  consciousness  of  war — 
dawned  for  each  in  the  look  of  the  other.  Brutal  shock 
and  then  this  second  exceeding  bitter  woe  awakened  their 
minds  to  the  futility  of  individual  life. 

"Lenore — it's  over!"  he  said,  huskily,  as  he  sank  into  a 
chair.  '  'Like  a  nightmare ! . . .  What  have  I  got  to  live  f or  ? " 

"You  have  us  girls,"  replied  Lenore.  "And  if  you  did 
not  have  us  there  would  be  many  others  for  you  to  live 
for.  .  .  .  Dad,  can't  you  see — now?" 

284 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"I  reckon.     But  I'm  growin'  old  an'  mebbe  I've  quit.'" 

"No,  dad,  you'll  never  quit.  Suppose  all  we  Americans 
quit.  That'd  mean  a  German  victory.  Never!  Never! 
Never!" 

"By  God!  you're  right!"  he  ejaculated,  with  the  trem 
bling  strain  of  his  face  suddenly  fixing.  Blood  and  life 
shot  into  his  eyes.  He  got  up  heavily  and  began  to  stride 
to  and  fro  before  her.  "You  see  clearer  than  me.  You 
always  did,  Lenore." 

"I'm  beginning  to  see,  but  I  can't  tell  you,"  replied 
Lenore,  closing  her  eyes.  Indeed,  there  seemed  a  colossal 
vision  before  her,  veiled  and  strange.  "Whatever  hap 
pens,  we  cannot  break.  It's  because  of  the  war.  We 
have  our  tasks — greater  now  than  ever  we  believed  could 
be  thrust  upon  us.  Yours  to  show  men  what  you  are 
made  of!  To  raise  wheat  as  never  before  in  your  life! 
Mine  to  show  my  sisters  and  my  friends — all  the  women — 
what  their  duty  is.  We  must  sacrifice,  work,  prepare, 
and  fight  for  the  future." 

" I  reckon,"  he  nodded,  solemnly.  "Loss  of  mother  an* 
Jim  changes  this  damned  war.  Whatever's  in  my  power 
to  do  must  go  on.  So  some  one  can  take  it  up  when  I — " 

"That's  the  great  conception,  dad,"  added  Lenore, 
earnestly.  "We  are  tragically  awakened.  We've  been 
surprised — terribly  struck  in  the  dark.  Something  mon 
strous  and  horrible !  .  .  .  I  can  feel  the  menace  in  it  for 
all — over  every  family  in  this  broad  land." 

"Lenore,  yon  said  once  that  Jim —  Now,  how'd  you 
know  it  was  all  over  for  him?" 

"A  woman's  heart,  dad.  When  I  said  good-by  to  Jim  I 
knew  it  was  good-by  forever." 

"Did  you  feel  that  way  about  Kurt  Dorn?" 

"No.  He  will  come  back  to  me.  I  dream  it.  it's  in 
my  spirit — my  instinct  of  life,  my  flesh-and-blood  life  of 
the  future — it's  in  my  belief  in  God.  Kurt  Dorn's  ordeal 
will  be  worse  than  death  for  him.  But  I  believe  as  I  pray 
— that  he  will  come  home  alive." 

285 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Then,  after  all,  you  do  hope,"  said  her  father.  "Lenore, 
when  I  was  down  East,  I  seen  what  women  were  doin'. 
The  bad  women  are  good  an'  the  good  women  are  great. 
I  think  women  have  more  to  do  with  war  than  men,  even 
if  they  do  stay  home.  It  must  be  because  women  are 
mothers.  .  .  .  Lenore,  you've  bucked  me  up.  I'll  go 
at  things  now.  The  need  of  wheat  next  year  will  be 
beyond  calculation.  I'll  buy  ten  thousand  acres  of  that 
wheatland  round  old  Chris  Dorn's  farm.  An'  my  shot 
at  the  Germans  will  be  wheat.  I'll  raise  a  million  bushels  I" 

Next  morning  in  the  mail  was  a  long,  thick  envelope  ad 
dressed  to  Lenore  in  handwriting  that  shook  her  heart 
and  made  her  fly  to  the  seclusion  of  her  room. 

NEW  YORK  CITY,  November  — . 
DEAREST, — When  you  receive  this  I  will  be  in  France. 

Then  Lenore  sustained  a  strange  shock.  The  beloved 
handwriting  faded,  the  thick  sheets  of  paper  fell;  and  all 
about  her  seemed  dark  and  whirling,  as  the  sudden  joy  and 
excitement  stirred  by  the  letter  changed  to  sickening  pain. 

" France!  He's  in  France!"  she  whispered.  "Oh, 
Kurt!"  A  storm  of  love  and  terror  burst  over  her.  It  had 
the  onset  and  the  advantage  of  a  bewildering  surprise. 
It  laid  low,  for  the  moment,  her  fortifications  of  sacrifice, 
strength,  and  resolve.  She  had  been  forced  into  woman 
hood,  and  her  fear,  her  agony,  were  all  the  keener  for  the 
intelligence  and  spirit  that  had  repudiated  selfish  love. 
Kurt  Dorn  was  in  France  in  the  land  of  the  trenches! 
Strife  possessed  her  and  had  a  moment  of  raw,  bitter 
triumph.  She  bit  her  lips  and  clenched  her  fists,  to  re 
strain  the  impulse  to  rush  madly  around  the  room,  to 
scream,  out  her  fear  and  hate.  With  forcing  her  .thought, 
with  hard  return  to  old  well-learned  arguments,  there 
came  back  the  nobler  emotions.  But  when  she  took  up 
the  letter  again,  with  trembling  hands,  her  heart  fluttered 

286 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

high  and  sick,  and  she  saw  the  words  through  blurred 
eyes. 

.  .  .  I'll  give  the  letter  to  an  ensign,  who  has  promised  to  mail 
it  the  moment  he  gets  back  to  New  York. 

Lenore,  your  letter  telling  me  about  Jim  was  held  up  in  the 
mail.  But  thank  goodness,  I  got  it  in  time.  I'd  already  been 
transferred,  and  expected  orders  any  day  to  go  on  board  the 
transport,  where  I  am  writing  now.  I'd  have  written  ypu,  or 
at  least  telegraphed  you,  yesterday,  after  seeing  Jim,  if  I  had 
not  expected  to  see  him  again  to-day.  But  this  morning  we 
were  marched  on  board  and  I  cannot  even  get  this  letter  off 
to  you. 

Lenore,  your  brother  is  a  very  sick  boy.  I  lost  some  hours 
finding  him.  They  did  not  want  to  let  me  see  him.  But  I 
implored — said  that  I  was  engaged  to  his  sister — and  finally 
I  got  in.  The  nurse  was  very  sympathetic.  But  I  didn't  care 
for  the  doctors  in  charge.  They  seemed  hard,  hurried,  brusque. 
But  they  have  their  troubles.  The  hospital  was  a  long  barracks, 
and  it  was  full  of  cripples. 

The  nurse  took  me  into  a  small,  bare  room,  too  damp  and 
cold  for  a  sick  man,  and  I  said  so.  She  just  looked  at  me. 

Jim  looks  like  you  more  than  any  other  of  the  Andersons.  I 
recognized  that  at  the  same  moment  I  saw  how  very  sick  he 
was.  They  had  told  me  outside  that  he  had  a  bad  case  of 
pneumonia.  He  was  awake,  perfectly  conscious,  and  he  stared 
at  me  with  eyes  that  set  my  heart  going. 

"Hello,  Jim!"  I  said,  and  offered  my  hand,  as  I  sat  down  on 
the  bed.  He  was  too  weak  to  shake  hands. 

"Who're  you?"  he  asked.  He  couldn't  speak  very  well. 
When  I  told  him  my  name  and  that  I  was  his  sister's  fiance  his 
face  changed  so  he  did  not  look  like  the  same  person.  It  was 
beautiful.  Oh,  it  showed  how  homesick  he  was!  Then  I 
talked  a  blue  streak  about  you,  about  the  girls,  about  "Many 
Waters" — how  I  lost  my  wheat,  and  everything.  He  was  in 
tensely  interested,  and  when  I  got  through  he  whispered  that  he 
guessed  Lenore  had  picked  a  "winner."  What  do  you  think  of 
that?  He  was  curious  about  me,  and  asked  me  questions  till 
the  nurse  made  him  stop.  I  was  never  so  glad  about  anything 
as  I  was  about  the  happiness  it  evidently  gave  him  to  meet  me 
and  hear  from  home.  I  promised  to  come  next  day  if  we  did 

287 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

not  sail.  Then  he  showed  what  I  must  call  despair.  He  must 
have  been  passionately  eager  to  get  to  France.  The  nurse 
dragged  me  out.  Jim  called  weakly  after  me:  "Good-by, 
Kurt.  Stick  some  Germans  for  me!"  I'll  never  forget  his 
tone  nor  his  look.  .  .  .  Lenore,  he  doesn't  expect  to  get  over  to 
France. 

I  questioned  the  nurse,  and  she  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 
She  looked  sad.  She  said  Jim  had  been  the  lion  of  his  regiment. 
I  questioned  a  doctor,  and  he  was  annoyed.  He  put  me  off  with 
a  sharp  statement  that  Jim  was  not  in  danger.  But  I  think 
he  is.  I  hope  and  pray  he  recovers. 

Thursday. 

We  sailed  yesterday.  It  was  a  wonderful  experience,  leaving 
Hoboken.  Our  transport  and  the  dock  looked  as  if  they  had  a 
huge  swarm  of  yellow  bees  hanging  over  everything.  The 
bees  were  soldiers.  The  most  profound  emotion  I  ever  had — 
except  the  one  when  you  told  me  you  loved  me — came  over  me 
as  the  big  boat  swung  free  of  the  dock — of  the  good  eld  U.  S., 
of  home.  I  wanted  to  jump  off  and  swim  through  the  eddying 
green  water  to  the  piles  and  hide  in  them  till  the  boat  had  gone. 
As  we  backed  out,  pulled  up  tugs,  and  got  started  down  the 
river,  my  thrills  increased,  until  we  passed  the  Statue  of  Liberty 
— and  then  I  couldn't  tell  how  I  felt.  One  thing,  I  could  not 
see  very  well.  ...  I  gazed  beyond  the  colossal  statue  that 
France  gave  to  the  U.  S. — 'way  across  the  water  and  the  ships 
and  the  docks  toward  the  West  that  I  was  leaving.  Feeling 
like  mine  then  only  comes  once  to  a  man  in  his  life.  First  I 
seemed  to  see  all  the  vast  space,  the  farms,  valleys,  woods, 
deserts,  rivers,  and  mountains  between  me  and  my  golden  wheat- 
hills.  Then  I  saw  my  home,  and  it  was  as  if  I  had  a  magnificent 
photograph  before  my  very  eyes.  A  sudden  rush  of  tears 
blinded  me.  Such  a  storm  of  sweetness,  regret,  memory! 
Then  at  last  you — you  as  you  stood  before  me  last,  the  very 
loveliest  girl  in  all  the  world.  My  heart  almost  burst,  and  in  the 
wild,  sick  pain  of  the  moment  I  had  a  strange,  comforting  flash 
of  thought  that  a  man  who  could  leave  you  must  be 
impelled  by  something  great  in  store  for  him.  I  feel  that.  I 
told  you  once.  To  laugh  at  death !  That  is  what  I  shall  do.  But 
perhaps  that  is  not  the  great  experience  which  will  come  to  me. 

I  saw  the  sun  set  in  the  sea,  'way  back  toward  the  western 

288 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

horizon,  where  the  thin,  dark  line  that  was  land  disappeared  in 
the  red  glow.  The  wind  blows  hard.  The  water  is  rough, 
dark  gray,  and  cold.  I  like  the  taste  of  the  spray.  Our  boat 
rolls  heavily  and  many  boys  are  already  sick.  I  do  not  imagine 
the  motion  will  affect  me.  It  is  stuffy  below-deck.  I'll  spend 
what  time  I  can  above,  where  I  can  see  and  feel.  It  was  dark 
just  now  when  I  came  below.  And  as  I  looked  out  into  the 
windy  darkness  and  strife  I  was  struck  by  the  strangeness  of 
the  sea  and  how  it  seemed  to  be  like  my  soul.  For  a  long  time 
I  have  been  looking  into  my  soul,  and  I  find  such  ceaseless  strife, 
such  dark,  unlit  depths,  such  chaos.  These  thoughts  and 
emotions,  always  with  me,  keep  me  from  getting  close  to  my 
comrades.  No,  not  me,  but  it  keeps  them  away  from  me.  I 
think  they  regard  me  strangely.  They  all  talk  of  submarines. 
They  are  afraid.  Some  will  lose  sleep  at  night.  But  I  never 
think  of  a  submarine  when  I  gaze  out  over  the  tumbling  black 
waters.  What  I  think  of,  what  I  am  going  after,  what  I  need 
seems  far,  far  away.  Always!  I  am  no  closer  now  than  when 
I  was  at  your  home.  So  it  has  not  to  do  with  distance.  And 
Lenore,  maybe  it  has  not  to  do  with  trenches  or  Germans. 

Wednesday. 

It  grows  harder  to  get  a  chance  to  write  and  harder  for  me 
to  express  myself.  When  I  could  write  I  have  to  work  or  am 
on  duty;  when  I  have  a  little  leisure  I  am  somehow  clamped. 
This  old  chugging  boat  beats  the  waves  hour  after  hour,  all 
day  and  all  night.  I  can  feel  the  vibration  when  I'm  asleep. 
Many  things  happen  that  would  interest  you,  just  the  duty  and 
play  of  the  soldiers,  for  that  matter,  and  the  stories  I  hear 
going  from  lip  to  lip,  and  the  accidents.  Oh!  so  much  happens. 
But  all  these  rush  out  of  my  mind  the  moment  I  sit  down  to 
write.  There  is  something  at  work  in  me  as  vast  and  heaving 
as  the  ocean. 

At  first  I  had  a  fear,  a  dislike  of  the  ocean.  But  that  is  gone. 
It  is  indescribable  to  stand  on  the  open  deck  at  night  as  we  are 
driving  on  and  on  and  on — to  look  up  at  the  grand,  silent  stars, 
that  know,  that  understand,  yet  are  somehow  merciless — to  look 
cut  across  the  starlit,  moving  sea.  Its  ceaseless  movement  at 
first  distressed  me;  now  I  feel  that  it  is  perpetually  moving  to 
try  to  become  still.  To  seek  a  level!  To  find  itself !  To  quiet 

289 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

down  to  peace!    But  that  will  never  be.    And  I  think  if  the 
ocean  is  not  like  the  human  heart,  then  what  is  it  like? 

This  voyage  will  be  good  for  me.  The  hard,  incessant  ob 
jective  life,  the  physical  life  of  a  soldier,  somehow  comes  to  a 
halt  on  board  ship.  And  every  hour  now  is  immeasurable  for 
me.  Whatever  the  mystery  of  life,  of  death,  of  what  drives  me, 
of  why  I  cannot  help  fight  the  demon  in  me,  of  this  thing  called 
war — the  certainty  is  that  these  dark,  strange  nights  on  the  sea 
have  given  me  a  hope  and  faith  that  the  truth  is  not  utterly 
unattainable. 

Sunday. 

We're  in  the  danger  zone  now,  with  destroyers  around  us  and 
a  cruiser  ahead.  I  am  all  eyes  and  ears.  I  lose  sleep  at  night 
from  thinking  so  hard.  The  ship  doctor  stopped  me  the  other 
day — studied  my  face.  Then  he  said:  "You're  too  intense. 
You  think  too  hard.  .  .  .  Are  you  afraid?"  And  I  laughed  in 
his  face.  ' '  Absolutely  no ! "  I  told  him.  ' '  Then  forget — and  mix 
with  the  boys.  Play — cut  up — fight — do  anything  but  think!" 
That  doctor  is  a  good  chap,  but  he  doesn't  figure  Kurt  Dorn 
if  he  imagines  the  Germans  can  kill  me  by  making  me  think. 

We're  nearing  France  now,  and  the  very  air  is  charged.  An 
aeroplane  came  out  to  meet  us — welcome  us,  I  guess,  and  it 
flew  low.  The  soldiers  went  wild.  I  never  had  such  a  thrill. 
That  air  game  would  just  suit  me,  if  I  were  fitted  for  it.  But 
I'm  no  mechanic.  Besides,  I'm  too  big  and  hea/y.  My  place 
will  be  in  the  front  line  with  a  bayonet.  Strange  how  a  bayonet 
fascinates  me! 

They  say  we  can't  write  home  anything  about  the  war.  I'll 
write  you  something,  whenever  I  can.  Don't  be  unhappy  if 
you  do  not  hear  often — or  if  my  letters  cease  to  come.  My 
heart  and  my  mind  are  full  of  you.  Whatever  comes  to  me — 
the  training  over  here — the  going  to  the  trenches — the  fighting — • 
I  shall  be  safe  if  only  I  can  remember  you. 

With  Love,  KURT. 

Lenore  carried  that  letter  in  her  bosom  when  she  went 
out  to  walk  in  the  fields,  to  go  over  the  old  ground  she  and 
Kurt  had  trod  hand  in  hand.  From  the  stone  seat  above 
the  brook  she  watched  the  sunset.  All  was  still  except  the 
murmur  of  the  running  water,  arid  somehow  she  could  not 

290 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

long  bear  that.  As  the  light  began  to  shade  on  the  slopes,- 
she  faced  them,  feeling,  as  always,  a  strength  come  to  her 
from  their  familiar  lines.  Twilight  found  her  high  above 
the  ranch,  and  absolutely  alone.  She  would  have  this 
lonely  hour,  and  then,  all  her  mind  and  energy  must  go 
to  what  she  knew  was  imperative  duty.  She  would  work 
to  the  limit  of  her  endurance. 

It  was  an  autumn  twilight,  with  a  cool  wind,  gray  sky, 
and  sad,  barren  slopes.  The  fertile  valley  seemed  half 
obscured  in  melancholy  haze,  and  over  toward  the  dim 
hills  beyond  night  had  already  fallen.  No  stars,  no  moon, 
no  afterglow  of  sunset  illumined  the  grayness  that  in  this 
hour  seemed  prophetic  of  Lenore's  future. 

"  'Safe I'  he  said.  'I  shall  be  safe  if  only  I  can  remember 
you,'  "  she  whispered  to  herself,  wonderingly.  "What  did 
he  mean?" 

Pondering  the  thought,  she  divined  it  had  to  do  with 
Dorn's  singular  spiritual  mood.  He  had  gone  to  lend  his 
body  as  so.  much  physical  brawn,  so  much  weight,  to  a 
concerted  movement  of  men,  but  his  mind  was  apart  from 
a  harmony  with  that.  Lenore  felt  that  whatever  had  been 
the  sacrifice  made  by  Kurt  Dorn.  it  had  been  passed  with 
his  decision  to  go  to  war.  What  she  prayed  for  then  was 
something  of  his  spirit. 

Slowly,  in  the  gathering  darkness,  she  descended  the  long 
slope.  The  approaching  night  seemed  sad,  with  autumn 
song  of  insects.  All  about  her  breathed  faith,  from  the 
black  hills  above,  the  gray  slopes  below,  from  the  shadowy 
void,  from  the  murmuring  of  insect  life  in  the  grass.  The 
rugged  fallow  ground  under  her  feet  seemed  to  her  to  be 
a  symbol  of  faith — faith  that  winter  would  come  and  pass — 
the  spring  sun  and  rain  would  burst  the  seeds  of  wheat — 
and  another  summer  would  see  the  golden  fields  of  waving 
grain.  If  she  did  not  live  to  see  them,  they  would  be 
there  just  the  same;  and  so  life  and  nature  had  faith  in 
its  promise.  That  strange  whisper  was  to  Lenore  the 
whisper  of  God. 

291 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

r"PHROUGH  the  pale  obscurity  of  a  French  night,  cool, 
1  raw,  moist,  with  a  hint  of  spring  in  its  freshness,  a 
line  of  soldiers  plodded  along,  the  lonely,  melancholy  lanes. 
Wan  starlight  showed  in  the  rifts  between  the  clouds. 
Neither  dark  nor  light,  the  midnight  hour  had  its  unreality 
in  this  line  of  marching  men;  and  its  reality  in  the  dim, 
vague  hedges,  its  spectral  posts,  its  barren  fields. 

Rain  had  ceased  to  fall,  but  a  fine,  cold,  penetrating 
mist  filled  the  air.  The  ground  was  muddy  in  places, 
slippery  in  others;  and  here  and  there  it  held  pools  of 
water  ankle-deep.  The  stride  of  the  marching  men  ap 
peared  short  and  dragging,  without  swing  or  rhythm.  It 
was  weary,  yet  full  of  the  latent  power  of  youth,  of  unused 
vitality.  Stern,  clean-cut,  youthful  faces  were  set  north 
ward,  unchanging  in  the  shadowy,  pale  gleams  of  the 
night.  These  faces  lifted  intensely  whenever  a  strange, 
muffled,  deep-toned  roar  rolled  out  of  the  murky  north. 
The  night  looked  stormy,  but  that  rumble  was  not  thunder. 
Fifty  miles  northward,  beyond  that  black  and  mysterious 
horizon,  great  guns  were  booming  war. 

Sometimes,  as  the  breeze  failed,  the  night  was  silent 
except  for  the  slow,  sloppy  tramp  of  the  marching  soldiers. 
Then  the  low  voices  were  hushed.  When  the  wind  fresh 
ened  again  it  brought  at  intervals  those  deep,  significant 
detonations  which,  as  the  hours  passed,  seemed  to  grow 
heavier  and  more  thunderous. 

At  length  a  faint  gray  light  appeared  along  the  eastern 
sky,  and  gradually  grew  stronger.  The  dawn  of  another 
day  was  close  at  hand.  It  broke  as  if  reluctantly,  cold  and 
gray  and  sunless. 

The  detachment  of  United  States  troops  halted  for 

camp  outside  of  the  French  village  of  A . 

292 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Kurt  Dorn  was  at  mess  with  his  squad. 
The  months  in  France  had  flown  away  on  wings  of 
training  and  absorbing  and  waiting.  Dorn  had  changed 
incalculably.  But  all  he  realized  of  it  was  that  he  weighed 
one  hundred  and  ninety  pounds  and  that  he  seemed  to  have 
lived  a  hundred  'swift  lives.  All  that  he  saw  and  felt 
became  part  of  him.  His  comrades  had  been  won  to  him 
as  friends  by  virtue  of  his  ever-ready  helping  hand,  by 
his  devotion  to  training,  by  his  close-lipped  acceptance  of 
all  the  toils  and  knocks  and  pains  common  to  the  making 
of  a  soldier.  The  squad  lived  together  as  one  large  family 
of  brothers.  Dorn's  comrades  had  at  first  tormented  him 
with  his  German  name;  they  had  made  fun  of  his  ab 
straction  and  his  letter-writing;  they  had  misunderstood 
his  aloofness.  But  the  ridicule  died  away,  and  now,  in 
the  presaged  nature  of  events,  his  comrades,  all  governed 
by  the  physical  life  of  the  soldier,  took  him  for  a  man. 

Perhaps  it  might  have  been  chance,  or  it  might  have 
been  true  of  all  the  American  squads,  but  the  fact  was  that 
Dorn's  squad  was  a  strangely  assorted  set  of  young  men. 
Perhaps  that  might  have  been  Dorn's  conviction  from  com 
ing  to  live  long  with  them.  They  were  a  part  of  the  New 

York  Division  of  the th,  all  supposed  to  be  New  York 

men.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  was  not  true.  Dorn  was 
a  native  of  Washington.  Sanborn  was  a  thick-set,  sturdy 
fellow  with  the  clear  brown  tan  and  clear  brown  eyes  of 
the  California!!.  Brewer  was  from  South  Carolina,  a 
lean,  lanky  Southerner,  with  deep-set  dark  eyes.  Dixon 
hailed  from  Massachusetts,  from  a  fighting  family,  and 
from  Harvard,  where  he  had  been  a  noted  athlete.  He 
was  a  big,  lithe,  handsome  boy,  red-faced  and  curly-haired. 
Purcell  was  a  New-Yorker,  of  rich  family,  highlyconnected, 
and  his  easy,  clean,  fine  ways,  with  the  elegance  of  his  per 
son,  his  blond  distinction,  made  him  stand  out  from  his 
khaki-clad  comrades,  though  he  was  clad  identically  with 
them.  Rogers  claimed  the  Bronx  to  be  his  home  and  he 
Was  proud  of  it.  He  was  little,  almost  under-sized,  but 

293 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

a  knot  of  muscle,  a  keen-faced  youth  with  Irish  blood  ii 
him.  These  particular  soldiers  of  the  squad  were  closest 
to  Dorn. 

Corporal  Bob  Owens  came  swinging  in  to  throw  his 
sombrero  down. 

"What's  the  orders,  Bob?'*  some  one  inquired. 

"We're  going  to  rest  here,"  he  replied. 

The  news  was  taken  impatiently  by  several  and  agree 
ably  by  the  majority.  They  were  all  travel-stained  and 
worn.  Dorn  did  not  comment  on  the  news,  but  the  fact 
was  that  he  hated  the  French  villages.  They  were  so 
old.  so  dirty,  so  obsolete,  so  different  from  what  he  had 
been  accustomed  to.  But  he  loved  the  pastoral  French 
countryside,  so  calm  and  picturesque.  He  reflected  that 
soon  he  would  see  the  devastation  wrought  by  the  Huns. 

"Any  news  from  the  front?"  asked  Dixon. 

"I  should  smile,"  replied  the  corporal,  grimly. 

"Well,  open  up,  you  clam!" 

Owens  thereupon  told  swiftly  and  forcibly  what  he  had 
heard.  More  advance  of  the  Germans — it  was  familiar 
news.  But  somehow  it  was  taken  differently  here  within 
sound  of  the  guns.  Dorn  studied  his  comrades,  wonder 
ing  if  their  sensations  were  similar  to  his.  He  expressed 
nothing  of  what  he  felt,  but  all  the  others  had  something 
to  say.  Hard,  cool,  fiery,  violent  speech  that  diffeied  as 
those  who  uttered  it  differed,  yet  its  predominant  note 
rang  fight. 

"Just  heard  a  funny  story,"  said  Owens,  presently. 

"Spring  it,"  somebody  replied. 

"This  comes  from  Berlin,  so  they  say.  Accord.it g  to 
rumor,  the  Kaiser  and  the  Crown  Prince  seldom  ta^k  to 
each  other.  They  happened  to  meet  the  other  day.  And 
the  Crown  Prince  said:  'Say,  pop,  what  got  us  into  this 
war?' 

4 'The  Emperor  replied,  'My  son,  I  was  deluded.' 

"'Oh,  sire,  impossible!'  exclaimed  the  Prince.  'How 
could  it  be?' 

294 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"'Well,  some  years  ago  I  was  visited  by  a  grinning 
son-of-a.-gun  from  New  York— no  other  than  the  great 
T.  R.  I  took  him  around.  He  was  most  interested  in 
my  troops.  After  he  had  inspected  them,  and  particularly 
the  Imperial  Guard,  he  slapped  me  on  the  back  and 
shouted,  "Bill,  you  could  lick  the  world!'*  .  .  .  And,  my 
son,  I  fell  for  it!'  " 

This  story  fetched  a  roar  from  every  soldier  present 
except  Dorn.  An  absence  of  mirth  in  him  had  been  noted 
before. 

"Dorn,  can't  you  laugh!"  protested  Dixon. 

"Sure  I  can — when  I  hear  something  funny,"  replied 
Dorn. 

His  comrades  gazed  hopelessly  at  him. 

"  My  Lawd!  boy,  thet  was  shore  funny,"  drawled  Brewer 
with  his  lazy  Southern  manner. 

' '  Kurt,  you're  not  human, ' '  said  Owens,  sadly.  ' '  That's 
why  they  call  you  Demon  Dorn." 

All  the  boys  in  the  squad  had  nicknames.  In  Dorn's 
case  several  had  been  applied  by  irrepressible  comrades 
before  one  stuck.  The  first  one  received  a  poor  reception 
from  Kurt.  The  second  happened  to  be  a  great  blunder 
for  the  soldier  who  invented  it.  He  was  not  in  Dorn's 
squad,  but  he  knew  Dorn  pretty  well,  and  in  a  moment  of 
deviltry  he  had  coined  for  Dorn  the  name  "Kaiser  Dorn.'* 
Dorn's  reaction  to  this  appellation  was  discomfiting  and 
painful  for  the  soldier.  As  he  lay  flat  on  the  ground,  where 
Dorn  had  knocked  him,  he  had  struggled  with  a  natural 
rage,  quickly  to  overcome  it.  He  showed  the  right  kind  of 
spirit.  He  got  up.  "Dorn,  I  apologize.  I  was  only  in 
fun.  But  some  fun  is  about  as  funny  as  death."  On 
the  way  out  he  suggested  a  more  felicitous  name — Demon 
Dorn.  Somehow  the  boys  took  to  that.  It  fitted  many 
of  Dorn 's  violent  actions  in  training,  especially  the  way  he 
made  a  bayonet  charge.  Dorn  objected  strenuously. 
But  the  name  stuck.  No  comrade  or  soldier  ever  again 
made  a  hint  of  Dorn's  German  name  or  blood, 

295 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Fellows,  if  a  funny  story  can't  make  Dorn  laugh,  he's 
Absolutely  a  dead  one,"  said  Owens. 

" Spring  a  new  one,  quick,"  spoke  up  some  one.  "Gee! 
it's  great  to  laugh.  .  .  .  Why,  I've  not  heard  from  home 
for  a  month!'* 

"Dorn,  will  you  beat  it  so  I  can  spring  this  one?" 
queried  Owens. 

"Sure,"  replied  Dorn,  amiably,  as  he  started  away. 
"I  suppose  you  think  me  one  of  these  I-dare-you-to- 
make-me-laugh  sort  of  chaps." 

"Forget  her,  Dorn — come  out  of  it!"  chirped  up  Rogers. 

To  Dorn's  regret,  he  believed  that  he  failed  his  comrades 
in  one  way,  and  he  was  always  trying  to  make  up  for  it. 
Part  of  the  training  of  a  soldier  was  the  ever-present  need 
and  duty  of  cheerfulness.  Every  member  of  the  squad 
had  his  secret,  his  own  personal  memory,  his  inner  con 
sciousness  that  he  strove  to  keep  hidden.  Long  ago  Dorn 
had  divined  that  this  or  that  comrade  was  looking  toward 
the  bright  side,  or  pretending  there  was  one.  They  all 
played  their  parts.  Like  men  they  faced  this  incompre 
hensible  duty,  this  tremendous  separation,  this  dark  and 
looming  future,  as  if  it  was  only  hard  work  that  must  be 
done  in  good  spirit.  But  Dorn,  despite  all  his  will,  was 
mostly  silent,  aloof,  brooding,  locked  up  in  his  eternal 
strife  of  mind  and  soul.  He  could  not  help  it.  Notwith 
standing  all  he  saw  and  divined  of  the  sacrifice  and  pain 
of  his  comrades,  he  knew  that  his  ordeal  was  infinitely 
harder.  It  was  natural  that  they  hoped  for  the  best. 
He  had  no  hope. 

"Boys,"  said  Owens,  "there's  a  squad  of  Blue  Devils 
camped  over  here  in  an  old  barn.  Just  back  from  the 
front.  Some  one  said  there  wasn't  a  man  in  it  who  hadn't 
had  a  dozen  wounds,  and  some  twice  that  many.  We 
must  see  that  bunch.  Bravest  soldiers  of  the  whole 
war!  They've  been  through  the  three  years — at  Verdun 
— on  the  Marne — and  now  this  awful  Flanders  drive. 
It's  up  to  us  to  see  them." 

296 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

News  like  this  thrilled  Dorn.  During  all  the  months  he 
had  been  in  France  the  deeds  and  valor  of  these  German- 
named  Blue  Devils  had  come  to  him,  here  and  there  and 
everywhere.  Dorn  remembered  all  he  heard,  and  believed 
it,  too,  though  some  of  the  charges  and  some  of  the  burdens- 
attributed  to  these  famed  soldiers  seemed  unbelievable .. 
His  opportunity  had  now  come.  With  the  moving  up  to 
the  front  he  would  meet  reality;  and  all  within  him,  the 
keen,  strange  eagerness,  the  curiosity  that  perplexed,- 
the  unintelligible  longing,  the  heat  and  burn  of  passion, 
quickened  and  intensified. 

Not  until  late  in  the  afternoon,  however,  did  off  duty 
present  an  opportunity  for  him  to  go  into  the  village. 
It  looked  the  same  as  the  other  villages  he  had  visited, 
and  the  inhabitants,  old  men,  old  women  and  children, 
all  had  the  somber  eyes,  the  strained,  hungry  faces,  the 
oppressed  look  he  had  become  accustomed  to  see.  But 
sad  as  were  these  inhabitants  of  a  village  near  the  front, 
there  was  never  in  any  one  of  them  any  absence  of  welcome 
to  the  Americans.  Indeed,  in  most  people  he  met  there 
was  a  quick  flashing  of  intense  joy  and  gratitude.  The 
Americans  had  come  across  the  sea  to  fight  beside  the 
French.  That  was  the  import,  tremendous  and  beautiful. 

Dorn  met  Dixon  and  Rogers  on  the  main  street  of  the 
little  village.  They  had  been  to  see  the  Blue  Devils. 

" Better  stay  away  from  them,"  advised  Dixon,  dubi 
ously. 

"No!  .  .  .  Why?"  ejaculated  Dorn. 

Dixon  shook  his  head.  "Greatest  bunch  I  ever  looked 
at.  But  I  think  they  resented  our  presence.  Pat  and  Z 
were  talking  about  them.  It's  strange,  Dorn,  but  I  be 
lieve  these  Blue  Devils  that  have  saved  France  and  Eng 
land,  and  perhaps  America,  too,  don't  like  our  being  here." 

"Impossible!"  replied  Dorn. 

"Go  and  see  for  yourself,"  ptit  in  Rogers*  "I  believe 
we  all  ought  to  look  them  over." 

Thoughtfully  Dorn  strode  on  in  the  direction  indicated, 

297 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

and  presently  he  arrived  at  the  end  of  the  village,  where  in 
an  old  orchard  he  found  a  low,  rambling,  dilapidated  barn, 
before  which  clusters  of  soldiers  in  blue  lounged  around 
smoking  fires.  As  he  drew  closer  he  saw  that  most  of  them 
seemed  fixed  in  gloomy  abstraction.  A  few  were  employed 
at  some  task  of  hand,  and  several  bent  over  the  pots  on 
the  fires.  Dorn's  sweeping  gaze  took  in  the  whole  scene, 
and  his  first  quick,  strange  impression  was  that  these 
soldiers  resembled  ghouls  who  had  lived  in  dark  holes  of 
mud. 

Kurt  meant  to  make  the  most  of  his  opportunity.  To 
him,  in  his  peculiar  need,  this  meeting  would  be  of  greater 
significance  than  all  else  that  had  happened  to  him  in 
France.  The  nearest  soldier  sat  on  a  flattened  pile  of 
straw  around  which  the  ground  was  muddy.  At  first 
glance  Kurt  tctok  him  to  be  an  African,  so  dark  were  face 
and  eyes.  No  one  heeded  Kurt's  approach.  The  moment 
was  poignant  to  Kurt.  He  spoke  French  fairly  well,  so 
that  it  was  emotion  rather  than  lack  of  fluency  which  made 
his  utterance  somewhat  unintelligible.  The  soldier  raised 
his  head.  His  face  seemed  a  black  flash — his  eyes  pierc 
ingly  black,  staring,  deep,  full  of  terrible  shadow.  They 
did  not  appear  to  see  in  Kurt  the  man,  but  only  the 
trim,  clean  United  States  army  uniform.  Kurt  repeated 
his  address,  this  time  more  clearly. 

The  Frenchman  replied  gruffly,  and  bent  again  over  the 
faded  worn  coat  he  was  scraping  with  a  knife.  Then 
Kurt  noticed  two  things — the  man's  great,  hollow,  spare 
frame  and  the  torn  shirt,  stained  many  colors,  one  of 
which  was  dark  red.  His  hands  resembled  both  those  of 
a  mason,  with  the  horny  callous  inside,  and  those  of  a 
salt-water  fisherman,  with  bludgy  fingers  and  barked 
knuckles  that  never  healed. 

Dorn  had  to  choose  his^words  slowly,  because  of  unfa- 
miliarity  with  French,  but  he  was  deliberate,  too,  because 
he  wanted  to  say  the  right  thing.  His  eagerness  made  the 
Frenchman  glance  up  again.  But  while  Dorn  talked  of  the 

298 


THE  DESERT  OF  W PI  EAT 

long  waits,  the  long  marches,  the  arrival  at  this  place, 
the  satisfaction  at  nearing  the  front,  his  listener  gave  no 
sign  that  he  heard.  But  he  did  hear,  and  so  did  several  of 
his  comrades. 

"We're  coming  strong,"  he  went  on,  his  voice  thrilling. 
"A  million  of  us  this  year!  We're  untrained.  We'll 
have  to  split  up  among  English  and  French  troops  and 
learn  how  from  you.  But  we've  come — and  we'll  fight!" 

Then  the  Frenchman  put  on  his  coat.  That  showed  him 
to  be  an  officer.  He  wore  me6dals.  The  dark  glance  he 
then  flashed  over  Dorn  was  different  from  his  first.  It 
gave  Dorn  both  a  twinge  of  shame  and  a  thrill  of  pride. 
It  took  in  Dorn's  characteristic  Teutonic  blond  features, 
and  likewise  an  officer's  swift  appreciation  of  an  extraor 
dinarily  splendid  physique. 

"You've  German  blood,"  he  said. 

* '  Yes.  But  I'm  American, ' '  replied  Dorn,  simply,  and  he 
met  that  soul-searching  black  gaze  with  all  his  intense  and 
fearless  spirit.  Dorn  felt  that  never  in  his  life  had  he  been 
subjected  to  such  a  test  of  his  manhood,  of  his  truth. 

"My  name's  Huon,"  said  the  officer,  and  he  extended 
one  of  the  huge  deformed  hands. 

"Mine's  Dorn,"  replied  Kurt,  meeting  that  hand  with 
his  own. 

Whereupon  the  Frenchman  spoke  rapidly  to  the  comrade 
nearest  him,  so  rapidly  that  all  Kurt  could  make  of  what 
he  said  was  that  here  was  an  American  soldier  with  a  new 
idea.  They  drew  closer,  and  it  became  manifest  that  the 
interesting  idea  was  Kurt's  news  about  the  American 
army.  It  was  news  here,  and  carefully  pondered  by  these 
Frenchmen,  as  slowly  one  by  one  they  questioned  him. 
They  doubted,  but  Dorn  convinced  them.  They  seemed  to 
like  his  talk  and  his  looks.  Dorn's  quick  faculties  grasped 
the  simplicity  of  these  soldiers.  After  three  terrible  years 
of  unprecedented  warfare,  during  which  they  had  per- 
formed  the  impossible,  they  did  not  want  a  fresh  army 
to  come  along  and  steal  their  glory  by  administering  a 

20  299 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

final  blow  to  a  tottering  enemy.  Gazing  into  those 
strange,  seared  faces,  beginning  to  see  behind  the  iron  mask, 
Dorn  learned  the  one  thing  a  soldier  lives,  fights,  and  dies 
for — glory. 

Kurt  Dorn  was  soon  made  welcome.  He  was  made  to 
exhaust  his  knowledge  of  French.  He  was  studied  by  eyes 
that  had  gleamed  in  the  face  of  death.  His  hand  was 
wrung  by  hands  that  had  dealt  death.  How  terribly  he  felt 
that!  And  presently,  when  his  excitement  and  emotion 
had  subsided  to  the  extent  that  he  could  really  see  what 
he  looked  at,  then  came  the  reward  of  reality,  with  all  its 
incalculable  meaning  expressed  to  him  in  the  gleaming 
bayonets,  in  the  worn  accoutrements,  in  the  greatcoats 
like  clapboards  of  mud,  in  the  hands  that  were  claws,  in 
the  feet  that  hobbled,  in  the  strange,  wonderful  signifi 
cance  of  bodily  presence,  standing  there  as  proof  of  valor, 
of  man's  limitless  endurance.  In  the  faces,  ah!  there 
Dorn  read  the  history  that  made  him  shudder  and  lifted 
him  beyond  himself.  For  there  in  those  still,  dark  faces, 
of  boys  grown  old  in  three  years,  shone  the  terror  of  war 
and  the  spirit  that  had  resisted  it. 

Dorn,  in  his  intensity,  in  the  over-emotion  of  his  self- 
centered  passion,  so  terribly  driven  to  prove  to  himself 
something  vague  yet  all-powerful,  illusive  yet  imperious, 
divined  what  these  Blue  Devil  soldiers  had  been  through. 
His  mind  was  more  than  telepathic.  Almost  it  seemed 
that  souls  were  bared  to  him.  These  soldiers,  quiet,  in 
tent,  made  up  a  grim  group  of  men.  They  seemed  slow, 
thoughtful,  plodding,  wrapped  and  steeped  in  calm.  But 
Dorn  penetrated  all  this,  and  established  the  relation  be 
tween  it  and  the  nameless  and  dreadful  significance  of 
their  weapons  and  medals  and  uniforms  and  stripes,  and 
the  magnificent  vitality  that  was  now  all  but  spent. 

Dorn  might  have  resembled  a  curious,  adventure-loving 
boy,  to  judge  from  his  handling  of  rifles  and  the  way  he 
slipped  a  strong  hand  along  the  gleaming  bayonet-blades. 
But  he  was  more  than  the  curious  youth :  he  had  begun  to 

300 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

grasp  a  strange,  intangible  something  for  which  he  had 
no  name.  Something  that  must  be  attainable  for  him! 
Something  that,  for  an  hour  or  a  moment,  would  make  him 
a  fighter  not  to  be  slighted  by  these  supermen! 

Whatever  his  youth  or  his  impelling  spirit  of  manhood, 
the  fact  was  that  he  inspired  many  of  these  veterans  of  the 
bloody  years  to  Homeric  narratives  of  the  siege  of  Verdun, 
of  the  retreat  toward  Paris,  of  the  victory  of  the  Marne, 
and  lastly  of  the  Kaiser's  battle,  this  last  and  most  awful 
offensive  of  the  resourceful  and  frightful  foe. 

Brunelle  told  how  he  was  the  last  survivor  of  a  squad 
at  Verdun  who  had  been  ordered  to  hold  a  breach  made 
in  a  front  stone  wall  along  the  out  posts.  How  they  had 
faced  a  bombardment  of  heavy  guns — a  whistling,  shriek 
ing,  thundering  roar,  pierced  by  the  higher  explosion  of 
a  bursting  shell — smoke  and  sulphur  and  gas — the  crum 
bling  of  walls  and  downward  fling  of  shrapnel.  How  the 
lives  of  soldiers  were  as  lives  of  gnats  hurled  by  wind  and 
burned  by  flame.  Death  had  a  manifold  and  horrible 
diversity.  A  soldier's  head,  with  ghastly  face  and  con 
scious  eyes,  momentarily  poised  in  the  air  while  the 
body  rode  away  invisibly  with  an  exploding  shell!  He 
told  of  men  blown  up,  shot  through  and  riddled  and  brained 
and  disemboweled,  while  their  comrades,  grim  and  unalter 
able,  standing  in  a  stream  of  blood,  lived  through  the  rain 
of  shells,  the  smashing  of  walls,  lived  to  fight  like  mad 
men  the  detachment  following  the  bombardment,  and  to 
kill  them  every  one. 

Mathie  told  of  t}ie  great  retreat — how  men  who  had 
fought  for  days,  who  were  unbeaten  and  unafraid,  had 
obeyed  an  order  they  hated  and  could  not  understand,  and 
had  marched  day  and  night,  day  and  night,  eating  as 
they  toiled  on,  sleeping  while  they  marched,  on  and  on, 
bloody-footed,  desperate,  and  terrible,  filled  with  burning 
thirst  and  the  agony  of  ceaseless  motion,  on  with  dragging 
legs  and  laboring  breasts  and  red-hazed  eyes,  on  and 
onward,  unquenchable,  with  the  spirit  of  France. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Sergeant  Delorme  spoke  of  the  sudden  fierce  about- 
face  at  the  Marne,  of  the  irresistible  onslaught  of  men 
whose  homes  had  been  invaded,  whose  children  had  been 
murdered,  whose  women  had  been  enslaved,  of  a  ruthless 
fighting,  swift  and  deadly,  and  lastly  of  a  bayonet  charge 
by  his  own  division,  running  down  upon  superior  numbers, 
engaging  them  in  hand-to-hand  conflict,  malignant  and 
fatal,  routing  them  over  a  field  of  blood  and  death. 

"Monsieur  Dorn,  do  you  know  the  French  use  of  a 
bayonet?"  asked  Delorme. 

"No,"  replied  Dorn. 

"Allans!  I  will  show  you,"  he  said,  taking  up  two 
rifles  and  handing  one  to  Dorn.  "Come.  It  is  so — and 
so — a  trick.  The  bodies  can't  face  cold  steel.  .  .  .  Ah, 
monsieur,  you  have  the  supple  wrists  of  a  juggler!  You 
have  the  arms  of  a  giant !  You  have  the  eyes  of  a  duelist ! 
You  will  be  one  grand  spitter  of  German  pigs!" 

Dorn  felt  the  blanching  of  his  face,  the  tingling  of  his 
nerves,  the  tightening  of  his  muscles.  A  cold  and  terrible 
meaning  laid  hold  of  him  even  in  the  instant  when  he 
trembled  before  this  flaming-eyed  French  veteran  who 
complimented  him  while  he  instructed.  How  easily, 
Dorn  thought,  could  this  soldier  slip  the  bright  bayonet 
over  his  guard  and  pierce  him  from  breast  to  back !  How 
horrible  the  proximity  of  that  sinister  blade,  with  its 
glint,  its  turn,  its  edge,  so  potently  expressive  of  its  his 
tory!  Even  as  Dorn  crossed  bayonets  with  this  inspired 
Frenchman  he  heard  a  soldier  comrade  say  that  Delorme 
had  let  daylight  through  fourteen  boches  in  that  memor 
able  victory  of  the  Marne. 

"You  are  very  big  and  strong  and  quick,  monsieur," 
said  the  officer  Huon,  simply.  "In  bayonet-work  you 
will  be  a  killer  of  boches." 

In  their  talk  and  practice  and  help,  in  their  intent  to 
encourage  the  young  American  soldier ,  these  Blue  Devils 
one  and  all  dealt  in  frank  and  inevitable  terms  of  death. 
That  was  their  meaning  in  life.  It  was  immeasurably 

302 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

horrible  for  Dorn,  because  it  seemed  a  realization  of  his 
imagined  visions.  He  felt  like  a  child  among  old  savages 
of  a  war  tribe.  Yet  he  was  fascinated  by  this  close-up 
suggestion  of  man  to  man  in  battle,  of  German  to  Ameri 
can,  of  materialist  to  idealist,  and  beyond  all  control  was 
the  bursting  surge  of  his  blood.  The  exercises  he  had  gone 
through,  the  trick  he  had  acquired,  somehow  had  strange 
power  to  liberate  his  emotion. 

The  officer  Huon  spoke  English,  and  upon  his  words 
Dorn  hung  spellbound. 

"  You  Americans  have  the  fine  dash,  the  nerve.  You  will 
perform  wonders.  But  you  don't  realize  what  this  war 
is.  You  will  perish  of  sheer  curiosity  to  see  or  eagerness 
to  fight.  But  these  are  the  least  of  the  horrors  of  this  war. 

"Actual  fighting  is  to  me  a  relief,  a  forgetfulness,  an 
excitement,  and  is  so  with  many  of  my  comrades.  We 
have  survived  wounds,  starvation,  shell-shock,  poison 
gas  and  fire,  the  diseases  of  war,  the  awful  toil  of  the 
trenches.  And  each  and  every  one  of  us  who  has  served 
long  bears  in  his  mind  the  particular  horror  that  haunts 
him.  I  have  known  veterans  to  go  mad  at  the  screaming 
of  shells.  I  have  seen  good  soldiers  stand  up  on  a  trench, 
inviting  the  fire  that  would  end  suspense.  For  a  man 
who  hopes  to  escape  alive  this  war  is  indeed  the  ninth 
circle  of  hell. 

"My  own  particular  horrors  are  mud,  water,  and  cold. 
I  have  lived  in  dark,  cold  mud-holes  so  long  that  my  mind 
concerning  them  is  not  right.  I  know  it  the  moment  I 
come  out  to  rest.  Rest!  Do  you  know  that  we  cannot 
rest?  The  comfort  of  this  dirty  old  barn,  of  these  fires, 
of  this  bare  ground,  is  so  great  that  we  cannot  rest,  we 
cannot  sleep,  we  cannot  do  anything.  When  I  think  of 
the  past  winter  I  do  not  remember  injury  and  agony  for 
myself,  or  the  maimed  and  mangled  bodies  of  my  com 
rades.  I  remember  only  the  horrible  cold,  the  endless  ages 
of  waiting,  the  hopeless  misery  of  the  dugouts,  foul, 
black  rat-holes  that  we  had  to  crawl  into  through  sticky 

303 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

mud  and  filthy  wa^er.  Mud,  water,  and  cold,  with  the 
stench  of  the  dead  clogging  your  nostrils !  That  to  me  is 
war!  .  .  .  Les  Miser  ablest  You  Americans  will  never 
know  that,  thank  God.  For  it  could  not  be  endured  by 
men  who  did  not  belong  to  this  soil.  After  all,  the  filthy 
water  is  half  blood  and  the  mud  is  part  of  the  dead  of 
our  people." 

Huon  talked  on  and  on,  with  the  eloquence  of  a  French 
man  who  relieves  himself  of  a  burden.  He  told  of  trenches 
dug  in  a  swamp,  lived  in  and  fought  in,  and  then  used  for 
the  graves  of  the  dead,  trenches  that  had  to  be  lived  in 
again  months  afterward.  The  rotting  dead  were  every 
where.  When  they  were  covered  the  rain  would  come  to 
wash  away  the  earth,  exposing  them  again.  That  was  the 
strange  refrain  of  this  soldier's  moody  lament — the  rain 
that  fell,  the  mud  that  forever  held  him  rooted  fast  in 
the  tracks  of  his  despair.  He  told  of  night  and  storm,  of  a 
weary  squad  of  men,  lying  flat,  trying  to  dig  in  under  cover 
of  rain  and  darkness,  of  the  hell  of  cannonade  over  and 
around  them.  He  told  of  hours  that  blasted  men's  souls, 
of  death  that  was  a  blessing,  of  escape  that  was  torture 
beyond  the  endurance  of  humans.  Crowning  that  night  of 
horrors  piled  on  horrors,  when  he  had  seen  a  dozen  men 
buried  alive  in  mud  lifted  by  a  monster  shell,  when  he 
had  seen  a  refuge  deep  underground  opened  and  devastated 
by  a  like  projectile,  came  a  cloud-burst  that  flooded  the 
trenches  and  the  fields,  drowning  soldiers  whose  injuries 
and  mud-laden  garments  impeded  their  movements,  and 
rendering  escape  for  the  others  an  infernal  labor  and  a 
hideous  wretchedness,  unutterable  and  insupportable. 

Round  the  camp-fires  the  Blue  Devils  stood  or  lay, 
trying  to  rest.  But  the  habit  of  the  trenches  was  upon 
them.  Dorn  gazed  at  each  and  every  soldier,  so  like  in 
strange  resemblance,  so  different  in  physical  character 
istics;  and  the  sad,  profound,  and  terrifying  knowledge 
came  to  him  of  what  they  must  have  in  their  minds.  He 

3°4 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

realized  that  all  he  needed  was  to  suffer  and  fight  and  live 
through  some  little  part  of  the  war  they  had  endured  and 
then  some  truth  would  burst  upon  him.  It  was  there  in 
the  restless  steps,  in  the  prone  forms,  in  the  sunken,  glar 
ing  eyes.  What  soldiers,  what  men,  what  giants!  Three 
and  a  half  years  of  unnamable  and  indescribable  fury  of 
action  and  strife  of  thought!  Not  dead,  nor  stolid  like 
oxen,  were  these  soldiers  of  France.  They  had  a  simplic 
ity  that  seemed  appalling.  We  have  given  all;  we  have 
stood  in  the  way,  borne  the  brunt,  saved  you — this  was 
flung  at  Dorn,  not  out  of  their  thought,  but  from  their 
presence.  The  fact  that  they  were  there  was  enough.  He 
needed  only  to  find  these  bravest  of  brave  warriors  real, 
alive,  throbbing  men. 

Dorn  lingered  there,  loath  to  leave.  The  great  lesson 
of  his  life  held  vague  connection  in  some  way  with  this 
squad  of  French  privates.  But  he  could  not  pierce  the 
veil.  This  meeting  came  as  a  climax  to  four  months  of 
momentous  meetings  with  the  best  and  the  riffraff  of 
many  nations.  Dorn  had  studied,  talked,  listened,  and 
learned.  He  who  had  as  yet  given  nothing,  fought  no 
enemy,  saved  no  comrade  or  refugee  or  child  in  all  this 
whirlpool  of  battling  millions,  felt  a  profound  sense  of  his 
littleness,  his  ignorance.  He  who  had  imagined  himself 
unfortunate  had  been  blind,  sick,  self-centered.  Here 
were  soldiers  to  whom  comfort  and  rest  were  the  sweetest 
blessings  upon  the  earth,  and  they  could  not  grasp  them. 
No  more  could  they  grasp  them  than  could  the  gaping 
civilians  and  the  distinguished  travelers  grasp  what  these 
grand  hulks  of  veteran  soldiers  had  done.  Once  a  group 
of  civilians  halted  near  the  soldiers.  An  officer  was  their 
escort.  He  tried  to  hurry  them  on,  but  failed.  Delorme 
edged  away  into  the  gloomy,  damp  barn  rather  than  meet 
stich  visitors.  Some  of  his  comrades  followed  suit, 
Ferier,  the  incomparable  of  the  Blue  Devils,  the  wearer 
of  all  the  French  medals  and  the  bearer  of  twenty-five 
wounds  received  in  battle — he  sneaked  away,  afraid  and 

305 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

humble  and  sullen,  to  hide  himself  from  the  curious. 
That  action  of  Ferier's  was  a  revelation  to  Dorn.  He  felt 
a  sting  of  shame.  There  were  two  classes  of  people  in 
relation  to  this  war — those  who  went  to  fight  and  those 
who  stayed  behind.  What  had  Delorme  or  Mathie  or 
Ferier  to  do  with  the  world  of  selfish,  comfortable,  well- 
fed  men?  Dorn  heard  a  million  voices  of  France  crying 
out  the  bitter  truth — that  if  these  war-bowed  veterans 
ever  returned  alive  to  their  homes  it  would  be  with  hopes 
and  hearts  and  faiths  burned  out,  with  hands  forever  lost 
to  their  old  use,  with  bodies  that  the  war  had  robbed. 

Dorn  bade  his  new-made  friends  adieu,  and  in  the 
darkening  twilight  he  hurried  toward  his  own  camp. 

"If  I  could  go  back  home  now,  honorably  and  well,  I 
would  never  do  it,"  he  muttered.  "I  couldn't  bear  to 
live  knowing  what  I  know  now — unless  I  had  laughed  at 
this  death,  and  risked  it — and  dealt  it!" 

He  was  full  of  gladness,  of  exultation,  in  contemplation 
of  the  wonderful  gift  the  hours  had  brought  him.  More 
than  any  men  of  history  or  present,  he  honored  these 
soldiers  the  Germans  feared.  Like  an  Indian,  Dorn  re 
spected  brawn,  courage,  fortitude,  silence,  aloofness. 

"  There  was  a  divinity  in  those  soldiers,"  he  soliloquized. 
"I  felt  it  in  their  complete  ignorance  of  their  greatness. 
Yet  they  had  pride,  jealousy.  Oh,  the  mystery  of  it 
all!  ...  When  my  day  comes  I'll  last  one  short  and 
terrible  hour.  I  would  never  make  a  soldier  like  one  of 
them.  No  American  could.  They  are  Frenchmen  whose 
homes  have  been  despoiled." 

In  the  tent  of  his  comrades  that  night  Dorn  reverted 
from  old  habit,  and  with  a  passionate  eloquence  he  told 
all  he  had  seen  and  heard,  and  much  that  he  had  felt. 
His  influence  on  these  young  men,  long  established,  but 
subtle  and  unconscious,  became  in  that  hour  a  tangible 
fact.  He  stirred  them.  He  felt  them  thoughtful  and  sad, 
and  yet  more  unflinching,  stronger  and  keener  for  the 
inevitable  day. 

306 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HPHE  monstrous  possibility  that  had  consumed  Kurt 
JL  Dorn  for  many  months  at  last  became  an  event — 
he  had  arrived  on  the  battle-front  in  France. 

All  afternoon  the  company  of  United  States  troops  had 
marched  from  far  back  of  the  line,  resting,  as  darkness 
came  on,  at  a  camp  of  reserves,  and  then  going  on.  Artil 
lery  fire  had  been  desultory  during  this  march ;  the  big  guns 
that  had  rolled  their  thunder  miles  and  miles  were  now 
silent.  But  an  immense  activity  and  a  horde  of  soldiers 
back  of  the  lines  brought  strange  leaden  oppression  to 
Kurt  Dorn's  heart. 

The  last  slow  travel  of  his  squad  over  dark,  barren 
space  and  through  deep,  narrow,  winding  lanes  in  the 
ground  had  been  a  nightmare  ending  to  the  long  journey. 
France  had  not  yet  become  clear  to  him;  he  was  a  stranger 
in  a  strange  land;  in  spite  of  his  tremendous  interest  and 
excitement,  all  seemed  abstract  matters  of  his  feeling,  the 
plague  of  himself  made  actuality  the  substance  of  dreams. 
That  last  day,  the  cumulation  of  months  of  training  and 
travel,  had  been  one  in  which  he  had  observed,  heard, 
talked  and  felt  in  a  nervous  and  fevered  excitement.  But 
now  he  imagined  he  could  not  remember  any  of  it.  His 
poignant  experience  with  the  Blue  Devils  had  been  a  reality 
he  could  never  forget,  but  now  this  blackness  of  subter 
ranean  cavern,  this  damp,  sickening  odor  of  earth,  this 
.presence  of  men,  the  strange,  muffled  sounds — all  these 
were  unreal.  How  had  he  come  here?  His  mind  labored 
with  a  burden  strangely  like  that  on  his  chest.  A  different, 
utterly  unfamiliar  emotion  seemed  rising  over  him.  May 
be  that  was  because  he  was  very  tired  and  very  sleepy. 
Sometime  that  night  he  must  go  on  duty.  He  ought  to 
sleep.  It  was  impossible.  He  could  not  close  his  eyes.  An 

307 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

effort  to  attend  to  what  he  was  actually  doing  disclosed  the 
fact  that  he  was  listening  with  all  his  strength.  For  what? 
He  could  not  answer  then.  He  heard  the  distant,  muffled 
sounds,  and  low  voices  nearer,  and  thuds  and  footfalls. 
His  comrades  were  near  him;  he  heard  their  breathing; 
he  felt  their  presence.  They  were  strained  and  intense; 
like  him,  they  were  locked  up  in  their  own  prison  of 
emotions. 

Always  heretofore,  on  nights  that  he  lay  sleepless,  Dorn 
had  thought  of  the  two  things  dearest  on  earth  to  him — 
Lenore  Anderson  and  the  golden  wheat-hills  of  his  home. 
This  night  he  called  up  Lenore's  image.  It  hung  there  in 
the  blackness,  a  dim,  pale  phantom  of  her  sweet  face,  her 
beautiful  eyes,  her  sad  lips,  and  then  it  vanished.  Not 
at  all  could  he  call  up  a  vision  of  his  beloved  wheat-fields. 
So  the  suspicion  that  something  was  wrong  with  his  mind 
became  a  certainty.  It  angered  him,  quickened  his  sen 
sitiveness,  even  while  he  despaired.  He  ground  his  teeth 
and  clenched  his  fists  and  swore  to  realize  his  presence 
there,  and  to  rise  to  the  occasion  as  had  been  his  vaunted 
ambition. 

Suddenly  he  felt  something  slimy  and  hairy  against  his 
wrist — then  a  stinging  bite.  A  rat!  A  trench  rat  that 
lived  on  flesh !  He  flung  his  arm  violently  and  beat  upon 
the  soft  earth.  The  incident  of  surprise  and  disgust  helped 
Dorn  at  least  in  one  way.  His  mind  had  been  set  upon  a 
strange  and  supreme  condition  of  his  being  there,  of  an 
emotion  about  to  overcome  him.  The  bite  of  a  rat,  draw 
ing  blood,  made  a  literal  fact  of  his  being  a  soldier,  in  a 
dugout  at  the  front  waiting  in  the  blackness  for  his  call 
to  go  on  guard.  This  incident  proved  to  Dorn  his  limita 
tions,  and  that  he  was  too  terribly  concerned  with  his 
feelings  ever  to  last  long  as  a  soldier.  But  he  could  not 
help  himself.  His  pulse,  his  heart,  his  brain,  all  seemed 
to  beat,  beat,  beat  with  a  nameless  passion. 

Was  he  losing  his  nerve — was  he  afraid?  His  denial 
did  not  reassure  him.  He  understood  that  patriotism. 

308 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

and  passion  were  emotions,  and  that  the  realities  of  a 
soldier's  life  were  not. 

Dorn  forced  himself  to  think  of  realities,  hoping  thus 
to  get  a  grasp  upon  his  vanishing  courage.  And  memory 
helped  hirn.  Not  so  many  days,  weeks,  months  back  he 
had  been  a  different  man.  At  Bordeaux,  when  his  squad 
first  set  foot  upon  French  soil!  That  was  a  splendid 
reality.  How  he  had  thrilled  at  the  welcome  of  the 
French  sailors! 

Then  he  thought  of  the  strenuous  round  of  army  duties, 
of  training  tasks,  of  traveling  in  cold  box-cars,  of  endless 
marches,  of  camps  and  villages,  of  drills  and  billets. 
Never  to  be  forgotten  was  that  morning,  now  seemingly 
long  ago,  when  an  officer  had  ordered  the  battalion  to 
pack.  "We  are  going  to  the  front  I"  he  announced. 
Magic  words!  What  excitement,  what  whooping,  what 
bragging  and  joy  among  the  boys,  what  hurry  and 
bustle  and  remarkable  efficiency!  That  had  been  a 
reality  of  actual  experience,  but  the  meaning  of  it,  the 
terrible  significance,  had  been  beyond  the  mind  of  any 
American. 

"I'm  here — at  the  front — now,"  whispered  Dorn  to 
himself.  "A  few  rods  away  are  Germans!"  .  .  .  In 
conceivable — no  reality  at  all !  He  went  on  with  his  swift 
account  of  things,  with  his  mind  ever  sharpening,  with  that 
strange,  mounting  emotion  flooding  to  the  full,  ready  to 
burst  its  barriers.  When  he  and  his  comrades  had  watched 
their  transport  trains  move  away — when  they  had  stood 
waiting  for  their  own  trains — had  the  idea  of  actual  con 
flict  yet  dawned  upon  them?  Dorn  had  to  answer  No. 
He  remembered  that  he  had  made  few  friends  among  the 
inhabitants  of  towns  and  villages  where  he  had  stayed. 
What  leisure  time  he  got  had  been  given  to  a  seeking  out  of 
sailors,  soldiers,  and  men  of  all  races,  with  whom  he  found 
himself  in  remarkable  contact.  The  ends  of  the  world 
brought  together  by  one  war !  How  could  his  memory  ever 
hold  all  that  had  come  to  him?  But  it  did.  Passion 

309 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

liberated  it.  He  saw  now  that  his  eye  was  a  lens,  his 
mind  a  sponge,  his  heart  a  gulf. 

Out  of  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  American  troops 
in  France,  what  honor  it  was  to  be  in  the  chosen  battalion 
to  go  to  the  front !  Dorn  lived  only  with  his  squad,  but  he 
felt  the  envy  of  the  whole  army.  What  luck!  To  be 
chosen  from  so  many — to  go  out  and  see  the  game  through 
quickly !  He  began  to  consider  that  differently  now.  The 
luck  might  be  with  the  soldiers  left  behind.  Always, 
underneath  Dorn's  perplexity  and  pondering,  under  his 
intelligence  and  spirit  at  their  best,  had  been  a  something 
deeply  personal,  something  of  the  internal  of  him,  a  self 
ish  instinct.  It  was  the  nature  of  man — self-preservation. 

Like  a  tempest  swept  over  Dorn  the  most  significant 
ordeal  and  lesson  of  his  experience  in  France — that  wonder 
ful  reality  when  he  met  the  Blue  Devils  and  they  took  him 
in.  However  long  he  lived,  his  life  must  necessarily  be 
transformed  from  contact  with  those  great  men. 

The  night  march  over  the  unending  roads,  through  the 
gloom  and  the  spectral  starlight,  with  the  dull  rumblings 
of  cannon  shocking  his  heart — that  Dorn  lived  over,  find 
ing  strangely  a  minutest  detail  of  observation  and  a  singu 
lar  veracity  of  feeling  fixed  in  his  memory. 

Afternoon  of  that  very  day,  at  the  reserve  camp 
somewhere  back  there,  had  brought  an  officer's  address  to 
the  soldiers,  a  strong  and  emphatic  appeal  as  well  as  order 
— to  obey,  to  do  one's  duty,  to  take  no  chances,  to  be 
eternally  vigilant,  to  believe  that  every  man  had  advantage 
on  his  side,  even  in  war,  if  he  were  not  a  fool  or  a  dare 
devil.  Dorn  had  absorbed  the  speech,  remembered  every 
word,  but  it  all  seemed  futile  now.  Then  had  come  the 
impressive  inspection  of  equipment,  a  careful  examination 
of  gas-masks,  rifles,  knapsacks.  After  that  the  order  to 
march ! 

Dorn  imagined  that  he  had  remembered  little,  but  he 
had  remembered  all.  Perhaps  the  sense  of  strange  un 
reality  was  only  the  twist  in  his  mind.  Yet  he  did  not 

310 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

know  where  he  was — what  part  of  France — how  far  north 
or  south  on  the  front  line — in  what  sector.  Could  not 
that  account  for  the  sense  of  feeling  lost? 

Nevertheless,  he  was  there  at  the  end  of  all  this  in 
comprehensible  journey.  He  became  possessed  by  an 
irresistible  desire  to  hurry.  Once  more  Dorn  attempted 
to  control  the  far-flinging  of  his  thoughts — to  come  down 
to  earth.  The  earth  was  there  under  his  hand,  soft, 
sticky,  moldy,  smelling  vilely.  He  dug  his  fingers  into 
it,  until  the  feel  of  something  like  a  bone  made  him  jerk 
them  out.  Perhaps  he  had  felt  a  stone.  A  tiny,  creeping, 
chilly  shudder  went  up  his  back.  Then  he  remembered, 
he  felt,  he  saw  his  little  attic  room,  in  the  old  home  back 
among  the  wheat-hills  of  the  Northwest.  Six  thousand 
miles  away !  He  would  never  see  that  room  again.  What 
unaccountable  vagary  of  memory  had  ever  recalled  it  to 
him?  It  faded  out  of  his  mind. 

Some  of  his  comrades  whispered;  now  and  then  one 
rolled  over;  none  snored,  for  none  of  them  slept.  Dorn 
felt  more  aloof  from  them  than  ever.  How  isolated  each 
one  was,  locked  in  his  own  trouble!  Every  one  of  them, 
like  himself,  had  a  lonely  soul.  Perhaps  they  were  facing 
it.  He  could  riot  conceive  of  a  careless,  thoughtless, 
emotionless  attitude  toward  this  first  night  in  the  front 
line  trench. 

Dorn  gradually  grew  more  acutely  sensitive  to  the  many 
faint,  rustling,  whispering  sounds  in  and  near  the  dugout. 

A  soldier  came  stooping  into  the  opaque  square  of  the 
dugout  door.  His  rifle,  striking  the  framework,  gave 
out  a  metallic  clink.  This  fellow  expelled  a  sudden  heavy 
breath  as  if  throwing  off  an  oppression. 

"Is  that  you,  Sanborn?"  This  whisper  Dorn  recog 
nized  as  Dixon's.  It  was  full  of  suppressed  excitement. 

"Yes." 

"Guess  it's  my  turn  next,     How — how  does  it  go?" 

Sanborn's  laugh  had  an  odd  little  quaver.  "Why,  so 
far  as  I  know,  I  guess  it's  all  right.  Damn  queer,  though. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

I  wish  we'd  got  here  in  daytime.  .  .  .  But  maybe  that 
wouldn't  help." 

"Humph!  .  .  .  Pretty  quiet  out  there?" 

"So  Bob  says,  but  what's  he  know — more  than  us?  I 
heard  guns  up  the  line,  and  rifle-fire  not  so  far  off." 

"Can  you  see  any — " 

"Not  a  damn  thing — yet  everything,"  interrupted  San- 
born,  enigmatically. 

"  Dixon!"  called  Owens,  low  and  quickly,  from  the  dark 
ness. 

Dixon  did  not  reply.  His  sudden  hard  breathing,  the 
brushing  of  his  garments  against  the  door,  then  swift, 
soft  steps  dying  away  attested  to  the  fact  of  his  going. 

Dorn  tried  to  compose  himself  to  rest,  if  not  to  sleep. 
He  heard  Sanborn  sit  down,  and  then  apparently  stay 
very  still  for  some  time.  All  of  a  sudden  he  whispered  to 
himself.  Dorn  distinguished  the  word  "hell." 

"What's  ailin'  you,  pard?"  drawled  Brewer. 

Sanborn  growled  under  his  breath,  and  when  some  one 
else  in  the  dugout  quizzed  him  curiously  he  burst  out: 
"I'll  bet  you  galoots  the  state  of  California  against  a  dill 
pickle  that  when  your  turn  comes  you'll  be  sick  in  your 
gizzards!" 

"We'll  take  our  medicine,"  came  in  the  soft,  quiet  voice 
of  Purcell. 

No  more  was  said.  The  men  all  pretended  to  fall  asleep, 
each  ashamed  to  let  his  comrade  think  he  was  concerned. 

A  short,  dull,  heavy  rumble  seemed  to  burst  the  outer 
stillness.  For  a  moment  the  dugout  was  silent  as  a  tomb. 
No  one  breathed.  Then  came  a  jar  of  the  earth,  a  creak 
ing  of  shaken  timbers.  Some  one  gasped  involuntarily. 
Another  whispered: 

"By  God!  the  real  thing!" 

Dorn  wondered  how  far  away  that  jarring  shell  had 
alighted.  Not  so  far!  It  was  the  first  he  had  ever  heard 
explode  near  him.  Roaring  of  cannon,  exploding  of  shell— 
this  had  been  a  source  of  every-day  talk  among  his  com- 

312 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

rades.  But  the  jar,  the  tremble  of  the  earth,  had  a  dreadful 
significance.  Another  rumble,  another  jar,  not  so  heavy  or 
so  near  this  time,  and  then  a  few  sharply  connected  reports, 
clamped  Dorn  as  in  a  cold  vise.  Machine-gun  shots! 
Many  thousand  machine-gun  shots  had  he  heard,  but  none 
with  the  life  and  the  spite  and  the  spang  of  these.  Did 
he  imagine  the  difference?  Cold  as  he  felt,  he  began  to 
sweat,  and  continually,  as  he  wiped  the  palms  of  his  hands, 
they  grew  wet  again.  A  queer  sensation  of  light-headed- 
ness  and  weakness  seemed  to  possess  him.  The  roots  of 
his  will-power  seemed  numb.  Nevertheless,  all  the  more 
revolving  and  all-embracing  seemed  his  mind. 

The  officer  in  his  speech  a  few  hours  back  had  said  the 
sector  to  which  the  battalion  had  been  assigned  was  alive. 
By  this  he  meant  that  active  bombardment,  machine- 
gun  fire,  hand-grenade  throwing,  and  gas-shelling,  o* 
attack  in  force  might  come  any  time,  and  certainly  must 
come  as  soon  as  the  Germans  suspected  the  presence  of  arv 
American  force  opposite  them. 

That  was  the  stunning  reality  to  Dorn — the  actual  exist^ 
ence  of  the  Huns  a  few  rods  distant.  But  realization  of 
them  had  not  brought  him  to  the  verge  of  panic.  He  would 
not  flinch  at  confronting  the  whole  German  army.  Nor 
did  he  imagine  he  put  a  great  price  upon  his  life.  Nor 
did  he  have  any  abnormal  dread  of  pain.  Nor  had  the 
well  -  remembered  teachings  of  the  Bible  troubled  his 
spirit.  Was  he  going  to  be  a  coward  because  of  some  in 
calculable  thing  in  him  or  force  operating  against  him? 
Already  he  sat  there,  shivering  and  sweating,  with  the 
load  on  his  breast  growing  laborsome,  with  all  his  sensorial 
being  absolutely  at  keenest  edge. 

Rapid  footfalls  halted  his  heart-beats.  They  came  from 
above,  outside  the  dugout,  from  the  trench. 

"Dorn,  come  out!"  called  the  corporal. 

Dorn's  response  was  instant.  But  he  was  as  blind  as  if 
he  had  no  eyes,  and  he  had  to  feel  his  way  to  climb  out. 
The  indistinct,  blurred  form  of  the  corporal  seemed  half 

313 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

merged  in  the  pale  gloom  of  the  trench.  A  cool  wind 
whipped  at  Dorn's  hot  face.  Surcharged  with  emotion, 
the  nature  of  which  he  feared,  Dorn  followed  the  corporal, 
stumbling  and  sliding  over  the  wet  boards,  knocking  bits 
of  earth  from  the  walls,  feeling  a  sick,  icy  gripe  in  his 
bowels.  Some  strange  light  flared  up — died  away.  An 
other  rumble,  distinct,  heavy,  and  vibrating!  To  his 
left  somewhere  the  earth  received  a  shock.  Dorn  felt  a 
wave  of  air  that  was  not  wind. 

The  corporal  led  the  way  past  motionless  men  peering 
out  over  the  top  of  the  wall,  and  011  to  a  widening,  where 
an  abutment  of  filled  bags  loomed  up  darkly.  Here  the 
corporal  cautiously  climbed  up  breaks  in  the  wall  and 
stooped  behind  the  fortification.  Dorn  followed.  His 
legs  did  not  feel  natural.  Something  was  lost  out  of  them. 
Then  he  saw  the  little  figure  of  Rogers  beside  him.  Dorn's 
turn  meant  Rogers 's  relief.  How  pale  against  the  night 
appeared  the  face  of  Rogers!  As  he  peered  under  his 
helmet  at  Dorn  a  low  whining  passed  in  the  air  overhead. 
Rogers  started,  slightly.  A  thump  sounded  out  there, 
interrupting  the  corporal,  who  had  begun  to  speak.  He 
repeated  his  order  to  Dorn,  bending  a  little  to  peer  into 
his  face.  Dorn  tried  to  open  his  lips  to  say  he  did  not 
understand,  but  his  lips  were  mute.  Then  the  corporal 
led  Rogers  away. 

That  moment  alone,  out  in  the  open,  with  the  strange, 
windy  pall  of  night — all-enveloping,  with  the  flares,  like 
sheet-lightning,  along  the  horizon,  with  a  rumble  here  and 
a  roar  there,  with  whistling  fiends  riding  the  blackness 
above,  with  a  series  of  popping,  impelling  reports  seem 
ingly  close  in  front — that  drove  home  to  Kurt  Dorn  a 
cruel  and  present  and  unescapable  reality. 

At  that  instant,  like  bitter  fate,  shot  up  a  rocket, 
or  a  star-flare  of  calcium  light,  bursting  to  expose  all 
underneath  in  pitiless  radiance.  With  a  gasp  that  was  a 
sob,  Dorn  shrank  flat  against  the  wall,  staring  into  the 
fading  circle,  feeling  a  creep  of  paralysis.  He  must  be 

3U 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

seen.  He  expected  the  sharp,  biting  series  of  a  machine- 
gun  or  the  bursting  of  a  bomb.  But  nothing  happened, 
except  that  the  flare  died  away.  It  had  come  from 
behind  his  own  lines.  Control  of  his  muscles  had  almost 
returned  when  a  heavy  boom  came  from  the  German 
side.  Miles  away,  perhaps,  but  close !  That  boom  meant 
a  great  shell  speeding  on  its  hideous  mission.  It  would 
pass  over  him.  He  listened.  The  wind  came  from  that 
side.  It  was  cold;  it  smelled  of  burned  powder;  it 
carried  sounds  he  was  beginning  to  appreciate — shots, 
rumbles,  spats,  and  thuds,  whistles  of  varying  degree, 
all  isolated  sounds.  Then  he  caught  a  strange,  low  moan 
ing.  It  rose.  It  was  coming  fast.  It  became  an 
o-o-o-O-O-O!  Nearer  and  nearer!  It  took  on  a  singing 
whistle.  It  was  passing — no — falling!  ...  A  mighty 
blow  was  delivered  to  the  earth — a  jar — a  splitting 
shock  to  windy  darkness ;  a  wave  of  heavy  air  was  flung 
afar — and  then  came  the  soft,  heavy  thumping  of  falling 
earth. 

That  shell  had  exploded  close  to  the  place  where  Dom 
stood.  It  terrified  him.  It  reduced  him  to  a  palpitating, 
stricken  wretch,  utterly  unable  to  cope  with  the  terror. 
It  was  not  what  he  had  expected.  What  were  w^ords, 
anyhow?  By  words  alone  he  had  understood  this  shell 
thing.  Death  was  only  a  word,  too.  But  to  be  blown 
to  atoms!  It  came  every  moment  to  some  poor  devil; 
it  might  come  to  him.  But  that  was  not  fighting.  Some 
where  off  in  the  blackness  a  huge  iron  monster  belched 
this  hell  out  upon  defenseless  men.  Revolting  and  in 
conceivable  truth! 

It  was  Dom's  ordeal  that  his  mentality  robbed  this 
hour  of  novelty  and  of  adventure,  that  while  his  natural, 
physical  fear  incited  panic  and  nausea  and  a  horrible, 
convulsive  internal  retching,  his  highly  organized,  ex 
quisitely  sensitive  mind,  more  like  a  woman's  in  its 
capacity  for  emotion,  must  suffer  through  imagining  the 
infinite  agonies  that  he  might  really  escape.  Every  shell 
21  315 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

then  must  blow  him  to  bits;  every  agony  of  every  soldier 
jnust  be  his. 

But  he  knew  what  his  duty  was,  and  as  soon  as  he 
could  move  he  began  to  edge  along  the  short  beat.  Once 
at  the  end  he  drew  a  deep  and  shuddering  breath,  and, 
fighting  all  his  involuntary  instincts,  he  peered  over  the 
top.  An  invisible  thing  whipped  close  over  his  head.  It 
did  not  whistle;  it  cut.  Out  in  front  of  him  was  only 
thick,  pale  gloom,  with  spectral  forms,  leading  away  to 
the  horizon,  where  flares,  like  sheet-lightning  of  a  summer 
night's  storm,  ran  along  showing  smoke  and  bold,  ragged 
outlines.  Then  he  went  to  the  other  end  to  peer  over 
there.  His  eyes  were  keen,  and  through  long  years  of 
habit  at  home,  going  about  at  night  without  light,  he 
could  see  distinctly  where  ordinary  sight  would  meet  only 
a  blank  wall.  The  flat  ground  immediately  before  him  was 
bare  of  living  or  moving  objects.  That  was  his  duty  as 
sentinel  here — to  make  sure  of  no  surprise  patrol  from  the 
enemy  lines.  It  helped  Dorn  to  realize  that  he  could 
accomplish  this  duty  even  though  he  was  in  a  torment. 

That  space  before  him  was  empty,  but  it  was  charged 
with  current.  Wind,  shadow,  gloom,  smoke,  electricity, 
death,  spirit — whatever  that  current  was,  Dorn  felt  it. 
He  was  more  afraid  of  that  than  the  occasional  bullets 
which  zipped  across.  Sometimes  shots  from  his  own 
squad  rang  out  up  and  down  the  line.  Off  somewhat  to 
the  north  a  machine-gun  on  the  Allies'  side  spoke  now 
and  then  spitefully.  'Way  back  a  big  gun  boomed. 
Dorn  listened  to  the  whine  of  shells  from  his  own  side 
with  a  far  different  sense  than  that  with  which  he  heard 
shells  whine  from  the  enemy.  How  natural  and  yet  how 
unreasonable!  Shells  from  the  other  side  came  over  to 
destroy  him;  shells  from  his  side  went  back  to  save  him. 
But  both  were  shot  to  kill!  Was  he,  the  unknown  and 
shrinking  novice  of  a  soldier,  any  better  than  an  unknown 
and  shrinking  soldier  far  across  there  in  the  darkness? 
What  was  equality?  But  these  were  Germans!  That 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

thing  so  often  said — so  beaten  into  his  brain — did  not 
convince  out  here  in  the  face  of  death. 

Four  o'clock!  With  the  gray  light  came  a  gradually 
increasing  number  of  shells.  Most  of  them  struck  far 
back.  A  few,  to  right  and  left,  dropped  near  the  front 
line.  The  dawn  broke — such  a  dawn  as  he  never  dreamed 
of — smoky  and  raw,  with  thunder  spreading  to  a  circle  all 
around  the  horizon. 

He  was  relieved.  On  his  way  in  he  passed  Purcell  at 
the  nearest  post.  The  elegant  New-Yorker  bore  himself 
with  outward  calm.  But  in  the  gray  dawn  he  looked 
haggard  and  drawn.  Older!  That  flashed  through 
Dorn's  mind.  A  single  night  had  contained  years,  more 
than  years.  Others  of  the  squad  had  subtly  changed. 
Dixon  gave  him  a  penetrating  look,  as  if  he  wore  a  mask, 
under  which  was  a  face  of  betrayal,  of  contrast  to  that 
soldier  bearing,  of  youth  that  was  gone  forever. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  squad  of  men  to  which  Dorn  belonged  had  to  be 
on  the  lookout  continually  for  an  attack  that  was 
inevitable.  The  Germans  were  feeling  out  the  line,  prob 
ably  to  verify  spy  news  of  the  United  States  troops  taking 
over  a  sector.  They  had  not,  however,  made  sure  of  this 
fact. 

The  gas-shells  came  over  regularly,  making  life  for  the 
men  a  kind  of  suffocation  most  of  the  time.  And  the 
great  shells  that  blew  enormous  holes  in  front  and  in 
back  of  their  position  never  allowed  a  relaxation  from 
strain.  Drawn  and  haggard  grew  the  faces  that  had 
been  so  clean-cut  and  brown  and  fresh. 

One  evening  at  mess,  when  the  sector  appeared  quiet 
enough  to  permit  of  rest,  Rogers  was  talking  to  some 
comrades  before  the  door  of  the  dugout. 

"It  sure  got  my  goat,  that  little  promenade  of  ours 
last  night  over  into  No  Man's  Land,"  he  said.  "We  had 
orders  to  slip  out  and  halt  a  German  patrol  that  was 
supposed  to  be  stealing  over  to  our  line.  We  crawled 
on  our  bellies,  looking  and  listening  every  minute.  If 
that  isn't  the  limit!  My  heart  was  in  my  mouth.  I 
couldn't  breathe.  And  for  the  first  moments,  if  I'd  run 
into  a  Hun,  I'd  had  no  more  strength  than  a  rabbit. 
But  all  seemed  clear.  It  was  not  a  bright  night — sore 
of  opaque  and  gloomy  —  shadows  everywhere.  There 
wasn't  any  patrol  coming.  But  Corporal  Owens  thought 
he  heard  men  farther  on  working  with  wire.  We  crawled 
some  more.  And  we  must  have  got  pretty  close  to  the 
enemy  lines — in  fact,  we  had — when  up  shot  one  of  those 
damned  calcium  flares.  We  all  burrowed  into  the  ground. 
I  was  paralyzed.  It  got  as  light  as  noon  —  strange 

318 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

greenish-white  flare.  It  magnified.  Flat  as  I  lay,  I  saw 
the  German  embankments  not  fifty  yards  away.  I  made 
sure  we  were  goners.  Slowly  the  light  burned  out.  Then 
that  machine-gun  you  all  heard  began  to  rattle.  Some 
thing  queer  about  the  way  every  shot  of  a  machine-gun 
bites  the  air.  We  heard  the  bullets,  low  down,  right  over 
us.  Say,  boys,  I'd  almost  rather  be  hit  and  have  it 
done  with!  .  .  .  We  began  to  crawl  back.  I  wanted  to 
run.  We  all  wanted  to.  But  Owens  is  a  nervy  guy  and 
he  kept  whispering.  Another  machine-gun  cut  loose, 
and  bullets  rained  over  us.  Like  hail  they  hit  some 
where  ahead,  scattering  the  gravel.  We'd  almost  reached 
our  line  when  Smith  jumped  up  and  ran.  He  said  after 
ward  that  he  just  couldn't  help  himself.  The  suspense 
was  awful.  I  know.  I've  been  a  clerk  in  a  bank!  Get 
that  ?  And  there  I  was  under  a  hail  of  Hun  lead,  without 
being  able  to  understand  why,  or  feel  that  any  time  had 
passed  since  giving  up  my  job  to  go  to  war.  Queer  how 
I  saw  my  old  desk!  .  .  .  Well,  that's  how  Smith  got  his. 
I  heard  the  bullets  spat  him,  sort  of  thick  and  soft.  .  .  . 
Ugh!  .  .  .  Owens  and  I  dragged  him  along,  and  finally 
into  the  trench.  He  had  a  bullet  through  his  shoulder 
and  leg.  Guess  he'll  live,  all  right.  .  .  .  Boys,  take  this 
from  me.  Nobody  can  tell  you  what  a  machine-gun  is 
like.  A  rifle,  now,  is  not  so  much.  You  get  shot  at, 
and  you  know  the  man  must  reload  and  aim.  That  takes 
time.  But  a  machine-gun!  Whew!  It's  a  comb — a 
fine-toothed  comb — and  you're  the  louse  it's  after!  You 
hear  that  steady  rattle,  and  then  you  hear  bullets  every 
where.  Think  of  a  man  against  a  machine-gun!  It's 
not  a  square  deal." 

Dixon  was  one  of  the  listeners.     He  laughed. 

"Rogers,  I'd  like  to  have  been  with  you.  Next  time  I'll 
volunteer.  You  had  action  —  a  run  for  your  money. 
That's  what  I  enlisted  for.  Standing  still — doing  nothing 
but  wait — that  drives  me  half  mad.  My  years  of  foot 
ball  have  made  action  necessary.  Otherwise  I  go  stale  in 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

mind  and  body.  .  .  .  Last  night,  before  you  went  on  that 
scouting  trip,  I  had  been  on  duty  two  hours.  Near  mid 
night.  The  shelling  had  died  down.  All  became  quiet. 
No  flares — no  flashes  anywhere.  There  was  a  luminous 
kind  of  glow  in  the  sky — moonlight  through  thin  clouds. 
I  had  to  listen  and  watch.  But  I  couldn't  keep  back  my 
thoughts.  There  I  was,  a  soldier,  facing  No  Man's  Land, 
across  whose  dark  space  were  the  Huns  we  have  come 
to  regard  as  devils  in  brutality,  yet  less  than  men.  .  .  . 
And  I  thought  of  home.  No  man  knows  what  home 
really  is  until  he  stands  that  lonely  midnight  guard.  A 
shipwrecked  sailor  appreciates  the  comforts  he  once  had; 
a  desert  wanderer,  lost  and  starving,  remembers  the  food 
he  once  wasted;  a  volunteer  soldier,  facing  death  in  the 
darkness,  thinks  of  his  home !  It  is  a  hell  of  a  feeling !  .  .  . 
And,  thinking  of  home,  I  remembered  my  girl.  I've 
been  gone  four  months — have  been  at  the  front  seven 
days  (or  is  it  seven  years?)  and  last  night  in  the  darkness 
she  came  to  me.  Oh  yes!  she  was  there!  She  seemed 
reproachful,  as  she  was  when  she  coaxed  me  not  to  enlist. 
My  girl  was  not  one  of  the  kind  who  sends  her  lover  to 
war  and  swears  she  will  die  an  old  maid  unless  he  returns. 
Mine  begged  me  to  stay  home,  or  at  least  wait  for  the 
draft.  But  I  wasn't  built  that  way.  I  enlisted.  And 
last  night  I  felt  the  bitterness  of  a  soldier's  fate.  All  this 
beautiful  stuff  is  bunk!  .  .  .  My  girl  is  a  peach.  She- 
had  many  admirers,  two  in  particular  that  made  me  run 
my  best  down  the  stretch.  One  is  club-footed.  He 
couldn't  fight.  The  other  is  all  yellow.  Him  she  liked 
best.  He  had  her  fooled,  the  damned  slacker.  ...  I 
wish  I  could  believe  I'd  get  safe  back  home,  with  a  few 
Huns  to  my  credit — the  Croix  de  Guerre — and  an  officer's 
uniform.  That  would  be  great.  How  I  could  show  up 
those  fellows!  .  .  .  But  I'll  get  killed — as  sure  as  God 
made  little  apples  I'll  get  killed — and  she  will  marry  one 
of  the  men  who  would  not  fight!" 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  a  clear  morning,  still  cold, 

320 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

but  the  sun  was  shining.  Guns  were  speaking  inter 
mittently.  Those  soldiers  who  were  off  duty  had  their 
gas-masks  in  their  hands.  All  were  gazing  intently 
upward. 

Dorn  sat  a  little  apart  from  them.  He,  too,  looked 
skyward,  and  he  was  so  absorbed  that  he  did  not  hear 
the  occasional  rumble  of  a  distant  gun.  He  was  watching 
the  airmen  at  work — the  most  wonderful  and  famous 
feature  of  the  war.  It  absolutely  enthralled  Dorn.  As 
a  boy  he  had  loved  to  watch  the  soaring  of  the  golden 
eagles,  and  once  he  had  seen  a  great  wide-winged  condor, 
swooping  along  a  mountain-crest.  How  he  had  envied 
them  the  freedom  of  the  heights — the  loneliness  of  the 
unscalable  crags — the  companionship  of  the  clouds !  Here 
he  gazed  and  marveled  at  the  man-eagles  of  the  air. 

German  planes  had  ventured  over  the  lines,  flying  high, 
and  English  planes  had  swept  up  to  intercept  them. 
One  was  rising  then  not  far  away,  climbing  fast,  like  a 
fish-hawk  with  prey  in  its  claws.  Its  color,  its  frame 
work,  its  propeller,  and  its  aviator  showed  distinctly 
against  the  sky.  The  buzzing,  high-pitched  drone  of  its 
motor  floated  down. 

The  other  aeroplanes,  far  above,  had  lost  their  sem 
blance  to  mechanical  man-driven  machines.  They  were 
now  the  eagles  of  the  air.  They  were  rising,  circling, 
diving  in  maneuvers  that  Dorn  knew  meant  pursuit. 
But  he  could  not  understand  these  movements.  To  him 
the  air-battle  looked  as  it  must  have  looked  to  an  Indian. 
Birds  of  prey  in  combat!  Dorn  recalled  verses  he  had 
learned  as  a  boy,  written  by  a  poet  who  sang  of  future 
wars  in  the  air.  What  he  prophesied  had  come  true. 
Was  there  not  a  sage  now  who  could  pierce  the  veil  of  the 
future  and  sing  of  such  a  thing  as  sacred  human  life? 
Dorn  had  his  doubts.  Poets  and  dreamers  appeared  not 
to  be  the  men  who  could  halt  materialism.  Strangely 
then,  as  Dorn  gazed  bitterly  up  at  these  fierce  fliers  who 
fought  in  the  heavens,  he  remembered  the  story  of  the 

321 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

three  wise  men  and  of  Bethlehem.  Was  it  only  a  story? 
Where  on  this  sunny  spring  morning  was  Christ,  and  the 
love  of  man  for  man? 

At  that  moment  one  of  the  forward  aeroplanes,  which 
was  drifting  back  over  the  enemy  lines,  lost  its  singular 
grace  of  slow,  sweeping  movement.  It  poised  in  the  air. 
It  changed  shape.  It  pitched  as  if  from  wave  to  wave  of 
wind.  A  faint  puff  of  smoke  showed.  Tiny  specks, 
visible  to  Dom's  powerful  eyes,  seemed  to  detach  them 
selves  and  fall,  to  be  followed  by  the  plane  itself  in  sheer 
downward  descent. 

Dorn  leaped  to  his  feet.  What  a  thrilling  and  terrible 
sight!  His  comrades  stood  bareheaded,  red  faces  up 
lifted,  open-rnouthed  and  wild  with  excitement,  not  dar 
ing  to  disobey  orders  and  yell  at  the  top  of  their  lungs. 
Dorn  felt,  strong  above  the  softened  wonder  and  thought 
of  a  moment  back,  a  tingling,  pulsating  wave  of  gushing 
blood  go  over  him.  Like  his  comrades,  he  began  to  wave 
his  arms  and  stamp  and  bite  his  tongue. 

Swiftly  the  doomed  plane  swept  down  out  of  sight. 
Gone !  At  that  instant  something  which  had  seemed  like 
a  bird  must  have  become  a  broken  mass.  The  other 
planes  drifted  eastward. 

Dorn  gasped,  and  broke  the  spell  on  him.  He  was  hot 
and  wet  with  sweat,  quivering  with  a  frenzy.  How  many 
thousand  soldiers  of  the  Allies  had  seen  that  downward 
flight  of  the  boche?  Dorn  pitied  the  destroyed  airman, 
hated  himself,  and  had  all  the  fury  of  savage  joy  that  had 
been  in  his  comrades. 

Dorn,  relieved  from  guard  and  firing-post,  rushed  back 
to  the  dugout.  He  needed  the  dark  of  that  dungeon. 
He  crawled  in  and,  searching  out  the  remotest,  blackest 
corner,  hidden  from  all  human  eyes,  and  especially  his 
own,  he  lay  there  clammy  and  wet  all  over,  with  an  icy, 
sickening  rend,  like  a  wound,  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 
He  shut  his  eyes,  but  that  did  not  shut  out  what  he  saw. 

322 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"So  help  me  God!"  he  whispered  to  himself.  ...  Six 
endless  months  had  gone  to  the  preparation  of  a  deed  that 
had  taken  one  second!  That  transformed  him!  His  life 
on  earth,  his  spirit  in  the  beyond,  could  never  be  now 
what  they  might  have  been.  And  he  sobbed  through 
grinding  teeth  as  he  felt  the  disintegrating,  agonizing, 
irremediable  forces  at  work  on  body,  mind,  and  soul. 

He  had  blown  out  the  brains  of  his  first  German. 

Fires  of  hell,  in  two  long  lines,  bordering  a  barren, 
ghastly,  hazy  strip  of  land,  burst  forth  from  the  earth. 
From  holes  where  men  hid  poured  thunder  of  guns  and 
stream  of  smoke  and  screechl-ig  of  iron.  That  worthless 
strip  of  land,  barring  deadly  foes,  shook  as  with  repeated 
earthquakes.  Huge  spouts  of  black  and  yellow  earth 
lifted,  fountain-like,  to  the  dull,  heavy  bursts  of  shells. 
Pound  and  jar,  whistle  and  whine,  long,  broken  rumble, 
and  the  rattling  concatenation  of  quick  shots  like  metallic 
cries,  exploding  hail-storm  of  iron  in  the  air,  a  desert  over 
which  thousands  of  puffs  of  smoke  shot  up  and  swelled 
and  drifted,  the  sliding  crash  far  away,  the  sibilant  hiss 
swift  overhead.  Boom!  Weeeee — eeeeoooo!  from  the 
east.  Boom!  Weeeee — eeeeoooo!  from  the  west. 

At  sunset  there  was  no  let-up.  The  night  was  all  the 
more  hideous.  Along  the  horizon  flashed  up  the  hot 
sheets  of  lightning  that  were  not  of  a  summer  storm. 
Angry,  lurid,  red,  these  upfkmg  blazes  and  flames  il 
lumined  the  murky  sky,  showing  in  the  fitful  and  flickering 
intervals  wagons  driving  toward  the  front,  and  patrols  of 
soldiers  running  toward  some  point,  and  great  upheavals 
of  earth  spread  high. 

This  heavy  cannonading  died  away  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  until  an  hour  before  dawn,  when  it  began  again 
with  redoubled  fury  and  lasted  until  daybreak. 

Dawn  came  reluctantly,  Dorn  thought.  He  was  glad. 
It  meant  a  charge.  Another  night  of  that  hellish  shrieking 
and  bursting  of  shells  would  kill  his  mind,  if  not  his  body. 
He  stood  on  guard  at  a  fighting-post.  Corporal  Owens 

323 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

lay  at  his  feet,  wounded  slightly.  He  would  not  retire. 
As  the  cannons  ceased  he  went  to  sleep.  Rogers  stood 
close  on  one  side,  Dixon  on  the  other.  The  squad  had 
lived  through  that  awful  night.  Soldiers  were  bringing 
food  and  drink  to  them.  All  appeared  grimly  gay. 

Dorn  was  not  gay.  But  he  knew  this  was  the  day  he 
would  laugh  in  the  teeth  of  death.  A  slumbrous,  slow 
heat  burned  deep  in  him,  like  a  covered  fire,  fierce  and 
hot  at  heart,  awaiting  the  wind.  Watching  there,  he  did 
not  voluntarily  move  a  muscle,  yet  all  his  body  twitched 
like  that  of  the  trained  athlete,  strained  to  leap  into  the 
great  race  of  his  life. 

An  officer  came  hurrying  through.  The  talking  hushed. 
Men  on  guard,  backs  to  the  trench,  never  moved  their 
eyes  from  the  forbidden  land  in  front.  The  officer  spoke. 
Look  for  a  charge !  Reserves  were  close  behind.  He  gave 
his  orders  and  passed  on. 

Then  an  Allied  gun  opened  up  with  a  boom.  The  shell 
moaned  on  over.  Dorn  saw  where  it  burst,  sending  smoke 
and  earth  aloft.  That  must  have  been  a  signal  for  a 
bombardment  of  the  enemy  all  along  this  sector,  for  big 
and  little  guns  began  to  thunder  and  crack. 

The  spectacle  before  Dorn's  hard,  keen  eyes  was  one 
that  he  thought  wonderful.  Far  across  No  Man's  Land, 
which  sloped  somewhat  at  that  point  in  the  plain,  he  saw 
movement  of  troops  and  guns.  His  eyes  were  telescopic. 
Over  there  the  ground  appeared  grassy  in  places,  with 
green  ridges  rising,  and  patches  of  brush  and  straggling 
trees  standing  out  clearly.  Faint,  gray-colored  squads 
of  soldiers  passed  in  sight  with  helmets  flashing  in  the  sun ; 
guns  were  being  hauled  forward;  mounted  horsemen 
dashed  here  and  there,  vanishing  and  reappearing ;  and  all 
through  that  wide  area  of  color  and  action  shot  up  live 
black  spouts  of  earth  crowned  in  white  smoke  that  hung 
in  the  air  after  the  earth  fell  back.  They  were  beautiful, 
these  shell-bursts.  Round  balls  of  white  smoke  magi 
cally  appeared  in  the  air,  to  spread  and  drift ;  long,  yellow 

324 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

columns  or  streaks  rose  here,  and  there  leaped  up  a  fan- 
shaped,  dirty  cloud,  savage  and  sinister;  sometimes 
several  shells  burst  close  together,  dashing  the  upflung 
sheets  of  earth  together  and  blending  their  smoke;  at 
intervals  a  huge,  creamy-yellow  explosion,  like  a  geyser, 
rose  aloft  to  spread  and  mushroom,  then  to  detach  itself 
from  the  heavier  body  it  had  upheaved,  and  float  away, 
white  and  graceful,  on  the  wind. 

Sinister  beauty!  Dorn  soon  lost  sight  of  that.  There 
came  a  gnawing  at  his  vitals.  The  far  scene  of  action 
could  not  hold  his  gaze.  That  dark,  uneven,  hummocky 
break  in  the  earth,  which  was  a  goodly  number  of  rods 
distant,  yet  now  seemed  close,  drew  a  startling  attention. 
Dorn  felt  his  eyes  widen  and  pop.  Spots  and  dots,  shiny, 
illusive,  bobbed  along  that  break,  behind  the  mounds, 
beyond  the  farther  banks.  A  yell  as  from  one  lusty 
throat  ran  along  the  line  of  which  Dorn's  squad  held  the 
center.  Dorn's  sight  had  a  piercing  intensity.  All  was 
hard  under  his  grip — his  rifle,  the  boards  and  bags  against 
which  he  leaned.  Corporal  Owens  rose  beside  him,  bare 
headed,  to  call  low  and  fiercely  to  his  men. 

The  gray  dots  and  shiny  spots  leaped  up  magically  and 
appallingly  into  men.  German  soldiers !  Boches !  Huns 
on  a  charge!  They  were  many,  but  wide  apart.  They 
charged,  running  low. 

Machine-gun  rattle,  rifle -fire,  and  strangled  shouts 
blended  along  the  line.  From  the  charging  Huns  seemed 
to  come  a  sound  that  was  neither  battle-cry  nor  yell 
nor  chant,  yet  all  of  them  together.  The  gray  advancing 
line  thinned  at  points  opposite  the  machine-guns,  but  it 
was  coming  fast. 

Dorn  cursed  his  hard,  fumbling  hands,  which  seemed 
so  eager  and  fierce  that  they  stiffened.  They  burned,  too, 
from  their  grip  on  the  hot  rifle.  Shot  after  shot  he  fired, 
missing.  He  could  not  hit  a  field  full  of  Huns.  He 
dropped  shells,  fumbled  with  them  at  the  breech,  loaded 
wildly,  aimed  at  random,  pulled  convulsively.  His  brain 

325 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

was  on  fire.  He  had  no  anger,  no  fear,  only  a  great  and 
futile  eagerness.  Yell  and  crack  filled  his  ears.  The 
gray,  stolid,  unalterable  Huns  must  be  driven  back. 
Dorn  loaded,  crushed  his  rifle  steady,  pointed  low  at  a 
great  gray  bulk,  and  fired.  That  Hun  pitched  down  out 
of  the  gray  advancing  line.  The  sight  almost  overcame 
Dorn.  Dizzy,  with  blurred  eyes,  he  leaned  over  his  gun. 
His  abdomen  and  breast  heaved,  and  he  strangled  over  his 
gorge.  Almost  he  fainted.  But  violence  beside  him 
somehow,  great  heaps  of  dust  and  gravel  flung  over  him, 
hoarse,  wild  yells  in  his  ears,  roused  him.  The  boches 
were  on  the  line!  He  leaped  up.  Through  the  dust  he 
saw  charging  gray  forms,  thick  and  heavy.  They  plunged, 
as  if  actuated  by  one  will.  Bulky  blond  men,  ashen  of 
face,  with  eyes  of  blue  fire  and  brutal  mouths  set  grim — 
Huns! 

Up  out  of  the  shallow  trench  sprang  comrades  on  each 
side  of  Dorn.  No  rats  to  be  cornered  in  a  hole!  Dorn 
seemed  drawn  by  powerful  hauling  chains.  He  did  not 
need  to  climb!  Four  big  Germans  appeared  simul 
taneously  upon  the  embankment  of  bags.  They  were 
shooting.  One  swung  aloft  an  arm  and  closed  fist.  He 
yelled  like  a  demon.  He  was  a  bomb-thrower.  On  the 
instant  a  bullet  hit  Dorn,  tearing  at  the  side  of  his  head, 
stinging  excruciatingly,  knocking  him  down,  flooding  his 
face  with  blood.  The  shock,  like  a  weight,  held  him 
down,  but  he  was  not  dazed.  A  body,  khaki-clad,  rolled 
down  beside  him,  convulsively  flopped  against  him.  He 
bounded  erect,  his  ears  filled  with  a  hoarse  and  clicking 
din,  his  heart  strangely  lifting  in  his  breast. 

Only  one  German  now  stood  upon  the  embankment 
of  bags  and  he  was  the  threatening  bomb-thrower.  The 
others  were  down — gray  forms  wrestling  with  brown. 
Dixon  was  lunging  at  the  bomb-thrower,  and,  reaching 
him  with  the  bayonet,  ran  him  through  the  belly.  He 
toppled  over  with  an  awful  cry  and  fell  hard  on  the  other 
side  of  the  wall  of  loaded  bags.  The  bomb  exploded. 

326 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

In  the  streaky  burst  Dixon  seemed  to  charge  in  bulk — 
to  be  flung  aside  like  a  leaf  by  a  gale. 

Little  Rogers  had  engaged  an  enemy  who  towered  over 
him.  They  feinted,  svomg,  and  cracked  their  guns  to 
gether,  then  locked  bayonets.  Another  German  striding 
from  behind  stabbed  Rogers  in  the  back.  He  writhed 
off  the  bloody  bayonet,  falling  toward  Dorn,  showing  a 
white  face  that  changed  as  he  fell,  with  quiver  of  torture 
and  dying  eyes. 

That  dormant  inhibited  self  of  Dorn  suddenly  was  no 
more.  Fast  as  a  flash  he  was  upon  the  murdering  Hun. 
Bayonet  and  rifle-barrel  lunged  through  him,  and  so 
terrible  was  the  thrust  that  the  German  was  thrown  back 
as  if  at  a  blow  from  a  battering-ram.  Dorn  whirled  the 
bloody  bayonet,  and  it  crashed  to  the  ground  the  rifle 
of  the  other  German.  Dorn  saw  not  the  visage  of 
the  foe  —  only  the  thick-set  body,  and  this  he  ripped 
open  in  one  mighty  slash.  The  German's  life  spilled  out 
horribly. 

Dorn  leaped  over  the  bloody  mass.  Owens  lay  next, 
wide-eyed,  alive,  but  stricken.  Purcell  fought  with 
clubbed  rifle,  backing  away  from  several  foes.  Brewer 
was  being  beaten  down.  Gray  forms  closing  in!  Dorn 
saw  leveled  small  guns,  flashes  of  red,  the  impact  of  lead 
striking  him.  But  he  heard  no  shots.  The  roar  in  his 
ears  was  the  filling  of  a  gulf.  Out  of  that  gulf  pierced  his 
laugh.  Gray  forms — guns — bullets — bayonets — death — 
he  laughed  at  them.  His  moment  had  come.  Here  he 
would  pay.  His  immense  and  terrible  joy  bridged  the  ages 
between  the  past  and  this  moment  when  he  leaped  light 
and  swift,  like  a  huge  cat,  upon  them.  They  fired  and 
they  hit,  but  Dorn  sprang  on,  tigerishly,  with  his  loud  and 
nameless  laugh.  Bayonets  thrust  at  him  were  straws. 
These  enemies  gave  way,  appalled.  With  sweep  and 
lunge  he  killed  one  and  split  a  second's  skull  before  the 
first  had  fallen.  A  third  he  lifted  and  upset  and  gored, 
like  a  bull,  in  one  single  stroke.  The  fourth  and  last 

327 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

of  that  group,  screaming  his  terror  and  fury,  ran  in  close 
to  get  beyond  that  sweeping  blade.  He  fired  as  he  ran. 
Dorn  tripped  him  heavily,  and  he  had  scarcely  struck 
the  ground  when  that  steel  transfixed  his  bulging  throat. 

Brewer  was  down,  but  Purcell  had  been  reinforced. 
Soldiers  in  brown  came  on  the  run,  shooting,  yelling, 
brandishing.  They  closed  in  on  the  Germans,  and  Dorn 
ran  into  that  melee  to  make  one  thrust  at  each  gray 
form  he  encountered. 

Shriller  yells  along  the  line — American  yells — the  enemy 
there  had  given  ground !  Dorn  heard.  He  saw  the  gray 
line  waver.  He  saw  reserves  running  to  aid  his  squad. 
The  Germans  would  be  beaten  back.  There  was  whirling 
blackness  in  his  head  through  which  he  seemed  to  see. 
The  laugh  broke  hoarse  and  harsh  from  his  throat.  Dust 
and  blood  choked  him. 

Another  gray  form  blocked  his  leaping  way.  Dorn 
saw  only  low  down,  the  gray  arms  reaching  with  bright, 
unstained  blade.  His  own  bloody  bayonet  clashed  against 
it,  locked,  and  felt  the  helplessness  of  the  arms  that 
wielded  it.  An  instant  of  pause — a  heaving,  breathless 
instinct  of  impending  exhaustion — a  moment  when  the 
petrific  mace  of  primitive  man  stayed  at  the  return  of  the 
human — then  with  bloody  foam  on  his  lips  Dorn  spent 
his  madness. 

A  supple  twist — the  French  trick — and  Dorn's  power 
ful  lunge,  with  all  his  ponderous  weight,  drove  his  bayonet 
through  the  enemy's  lungs. 

"Ka — ma — rod!'1  came  the  strange,  strangling  cry. 

A  weight  sagged1  down  on  Dorn's  rifle.  He  did  not  pull 
out  the  bayonet,  but  as  it  lowered  with  the  burden  of 
the  body  his  eyes,  fixed  at  one  height,  suddenly  had 
brought  into  their  range  the  face  of  his  foe. 

A  boy — dying  on  his  bayonet !  Then  came  a  resurrec 
tion  of  Kurt  Dorn's  soul.  He  looked  at  what  must  be  his 
last  deed  as  a  soldier.  His  mind  halted.  He  saw  only 
the  ghastly  face,  the  eyes  in  which  he  expected  to  see 

328 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

hate,  but  saw  only  love  of  life,  suddenly  reborn,  suddenly 
surprised  at  death. 

"God  save  you,  German!     I'd  give  my  life  for  yours! 

Too  late!  Dorn  watched  the  youth's  last  clutching  of 
empty  fingers,  the  last  look  of  consciousness  at  his  con 
queror,  the  last  quiver.  The  youth  died  and  slid  back 
off  the  rigid  bayonet.  War  of  men! 

A  heavy  thud  sounded  to  the  left  of  Dorn.  A  burst 
ing  flash  hid  the  face  of  his  German  victim.  A  terrific 
wind,  sharp  and  hard  as  nails,  lifted  Dorn  into  roaring 
blackness.  .  .  • 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

"  /W|ANY  WATERS"  shone  white  and  green  under  the 

1  V 1  bright  May  sunshine.  Seen  from  the  height  of 
slope,  the  winding  brooks  looked  like  silver  bands  across 
a  vast  belt  of  rainy  green  and  purple  that  bordered  the 
broad  river  in  the  bottom-lands.  A  summer  haze  filled 
the  air,  and  hints  of  gold  on  the  waving  wheat  slopes 
presaged  an  early  and  bountiful  harvest. 

It  was  warm  up  there  on  the  slope  where  Lenore  Ander 
son  watched  and  brooded.  The  breeze  brought  fragrant 
smell  of  fresh-cut  alfalfa  and  the  rustling  song  of  the 
wheat.  The  stately  house  gleamed  white  down  on  the 
terraced  green  knoll ;  horses  and  cattle  grazed  in  the  past 
ure;  workmen  moved  like  snails  in  the  brown  gardens; 
a  motor-car  crept  along  the  road  far  below,  with  its  trail 
cf  rising  dust. 

Two  miles  of  soft  green  wheat-slope  lay  between 
Lenore  and  her  home.  She  had  needed  the  loneliness  and 
silence  and  memory  of  a  place  she  had  not  visited  for 
many  months.  Winter  had  passed.  Summer  had  come 
with  its  birds  and  flowers.  The  wheat-fields  were  again 
waving,  beautiful,  luxuriant.  But  life  was  not  as  it  had 
been  for  Lenore  Anderson. 

Kurt  Dorn,  private,  mortally  wounded! — So  had  read 
the  brief  and  terrible  line  in  a  Spokane  newspaper,  pub 
lishing  an  Associated  Press  despatch  of  Pershing's  casu 
alty-list.  No  more!  That  had  been  the  only  news  of 
Kurt  Dorn  for  a  long  time.  A  month  had  dragged  by, 
of  doubt,  of  hope,  of  slow  despairing. 

Up  to  the  time  of  that  fatal  announcement  Lenore  had 
scarcely  noted  the  fleeting  of  the  days.  With  all  her 
spirit  and  energy  she  had  thrown  herself  into  the  organiz 
ing  of  the  women  of  the  valley  to  work  for  the  inter  sts 

330 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

of  the  war.  She  had  made  herself  a  leader  who  spared  no 
effort,  no  sacrifice,  no  expense  in  what  she  considered  her 
duty.  Conservation  of  food,  intensive  farm  production, 
knitting  for  soldiers,  Liberty  Loans  and  Red  Cross — these 
she  had  studied  and  mastered,  to  the  end  that  the  women 
of  the  great  valley  had  accomplished  work  which  won 
national  honor.  It  had  been  excitement,  joy,  and  a 
strange  fulfilment  for  her.  But  after  the  shock  caused 
by  the  fatal  news  about  Dorn  she  had  lost  interest,  though 
she  had  worked  on  harder  than  ever. 

Just  a  night  ago  her  father  had  gazed  at  her  and  then 
told  her  to  come  to  his  office.  She  did  so.  And  there 
he  said:  "  You're  workin'  too  hard.  You've  got  to  quit." 

"Oh  no,  dad.  I'm  only  tired  to-night,"  she  had  re 
plied.  "Let  me  go  on.  I've  planned  so — " 

"No!"  he  said,  banging  his  desk.  "You'll  run  yourself 
down." 

"But,  father,  these  are  war-times.  Could  I  do  less — 
could  I  think  of — " 

"You've  done  wonders.  You've  been  the  life  of  this 
work.  Some  one  else  can  carry  it  on  now.  You'd 
kill  yourself.  An'  this  war  has  cost  the  Andersons 
enough." 

"Should  we  count  the  cost?"  she  asked. 

Anderson  had  sworn.  "No,  we  shouldn't.  But  I'm 
not  goin'  to  lose  my  girl.  Do  you  get  that  hunch?  .  .  . 
I've  bought  bonds  by  the  bushel.  I've  given  thousands 
to  your  relief  societies.  I  gave  up  my  son  Jim — an'  that 
cost  us  mother.  ...  I'm  raisin'  a  million  bushels  of 
wheat  this  year  that  the  government  can  have.  An' 
I'm  starvin'  to  death  because  I  don't  get  what  I  used  to 
eat.  .  .  .  Then  this  last  blow — Dorn! — that  fine  young 
wheat-man,  the  best —  Aw!  Lenore  ..." 

"But,  dad,  is — isn't  there  any — any  hope?" 

Anderson  was  silent. 

"Dad,"  she  had  pleaded,  "if  he  were  really  dead — 
buried — oh!   wouldn't  I  feel  it?" 
22 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"You've  overworked  yourself.  Now  you've  got  to 
rest,"  her  father  had  replied,  huskily. 

"But,  dad  .  .  ." 

"I  said  no.  .  .  .  I've  a  heap  of  pride  in  what  you've 
done.  An'  I  sure  think  you're  the  best  Anderson  of  the 
lot.  That's  all.  Now  kiss  me  an'  go  to  bed." 

That  explained  how  Lenore  came  to  be  alone,  high  up 
on  the  vast  wheat-slope,  watching  and  feeling,  with  no 
more  work  to  do.  The  slow  climb  there  had  proved  to 
her  how  much  she  needed  rest.  But  work  even  under 
strain  or  pain  would  have  been  preferable  to  endless  hours 
to  think,  to  remember,  to  fight  despair. 

Mortally  wounded!  She  whispered  the  tragic  phrase. 
When?  Where?  How  had  her  lover  been  mortally 
wounded?  That  meant  death.  But  no  other  word  had 
come  and  no  spiritual  realization  of  death  abided  in  her 
soul.  It  seemed  impossible  for  Lenore  to  accept  things 
as  her  father  and  friends  did.  Nevertheless,  equally 
impossible  was  it  not  to  be  influenced  by  their  practical 
minds.  Because  of  her  nervousness,  of  her  overstrain, 
she  had  lost  a  good  deal  of  her  mental  poise;  and  she 
divined  that  the  only  help  for  that  was  certainty  of  Dorn's 
fate.  She  could  bear  the  shock  if  only  she  could  know 
positively.  And  leaning  her  face  in  her  hands,  with  the 
warm  wind  blowing  her  hair  and  bringing  the  rustle  of  the 
wheat,  she  prayed  for  divination. 

No  answer!  Absolutely  no  mystic  consciousness  of 
death — of  an  end  to  her  love  here  on  the  earth !  Instead 
of  that  breathed  a  strong  physical  presence  of  life  all  about 
her,  in  the  swelling,  waving  slopes  of  wheat,  in  the  beauti 
ful  butterflies,  in  the  singing  birds  low  down  and  the  soar 
ing  eagles  high  above — life  beating  and  surging  in  her 
heart,  her  veins,  unquenchable  and  indomitable.  It  gave 
the  lie  to  her  morbidness.  But  it  seemed  only  a  physical 
state.  How  could  she  find  any  tangible  hold  on  realities? 

She  lifted  her  face  to  the  lonely  sky,  and  her  hands 
pressed  to  her  breast  where  the  deep  ache  throbbed  heavily. 

332 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"It's  not  that  I  can't  give  him  up,"  she  whispered, 
as  if  impelled  to  speak.  "I  can.  I  have  given  him  up. 
It's  this  torture  of  suspense.  Oh,  not  to  know!  .  .  . 
But  if  that  newspaper  had  claimed  him  one  of  the  killed, 
I'd  not  believe." 

So  Lenore  trusted  more  to  the  mystic  whisper  of  her 
woman's  soul  than  to  all  the  unproven  outward  things. 
Still  trust  as  she  might,  the  voice  of  the  world  dinned  in 
her  ears,  and  between  the  two  she  was  on  the  rack.  Loss 
of  Jim — loss  of  her  mother — what  unfilled  gulfs  in  her 
heart !  She  was  one  who  loved  only  few,  but  these  deeply. 
To-day  when  they  were  gone  was  different  from  yester 
day  when  they  were  here  —  different  because  memory 
recalled  actual  words,  deeds,  kisses  of  loved  ones  whose 
life  was  ended.  Utterly  futile  was  it  for  Lenore  to  try  to 
think  of  Dorn  in  that  way.  She  saw  his  stalwart  form 
down  through  the  summer  haze,  coming  with  his  springy 
stride  through  the  wheat.  Yet — the  words — mortally 
wounded!  They  had  burned  into  her  thought  so  that 
when  she  closed  her  eyes  she  saw  them,  darkly  red, 
against  the  blindness  of  sight.  Pain  was  a  sluggish 
stream  with  source  high  in  her  breast,  and  it  moved  with 
her  unquickened  blood.  If  Dorn  were  really  dead, 
what  would  become  of  her?  Selfish  question  for  a  girl 
whose  lover  had  died  for  his  country!  She  would  work, 
she  would  be  worthy  of  him,  she  would  never  pine,  she 
would  live  to  remember.  But,  ah!  the  difference  to  her! 
Never  for  her  who  had  so  loved  the  open,  the  silken  rustle 
of  the  wheat  and  the  waving  shadows,  the  green-and-gold 
slopes,  the  birds  of  the  air  and  the  beasts  of  the  field,  the 
voice  of  child  and  the  sweetness  of  life — never  again 
would  these  be  the  same  to  her,  if  Dorn  were  gone 
forever. 

That  ache  in  her  heart  had  communicated  itself  to  all 
her  being.  It  filled  her  mind  and  her  body.  Tears  stung 
her  eyes,  and  again  they  were  dry  when  tears  would  have 
soothed.  Just  as  any  other  girl  she  wept,  and  then  she 

333 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

burned  with  fever.  A  longing  she  had  only  faintly  known, 
a  physical  thing  which  she  had  resisted,  had  become  real, 
insistent,  beating.  Through  love  and  loss  she  was  to  be 
denied  a  heritage  common  to  all  women.  A  weariness 
dragged  at  her.  Noble  spirit  was  not  a  natural  thing. 
It  must  be  intelligence  seeing  the  higher.  But  to  be 
human  was  to  love  life,  to  hate  death,  to  faint  under  loss, 
to  throb  and  pant  with  heavy  sighs,  to  lie  sleepless  in  the 
long  dark  night,  to  shrink  with  unutterable  sadness  at 
the  wan  light  of  dawn,  to  follow  duty  with  a  laggard 
sense,  to  feel  the  slow  ebb  of  vitality  and  not  to  care,  to 
suffer  with  a  breaking  heart. 

Sunset  hour  reminded  Lenore  that  she  must  not  linger 
there  on  the  slope.  So,  following  the  grass-grown  lane 
between  the  sections  of  wheat,  she  wended  a  reluctant  way 
homeward.  Twilight  was  falling  when  she  reached  the 
yard.  The  cooling  air  was  full  of  a  fragrance  of  flowers 
freshly  watered.  Kathleen  appeared  on  the  path,  evi 
dently  waiting  for  her.  The  girl  was  growing  tall.  Lenore 
remembered  with  a  pang  that  her  full  mind  had  left  little 
time  for  her  to  be  a  mother  to  this  sister.  Kathleen 
came  running,  excited  and  wide-eyed. 

"Lenore,  I  thought  you'd  never  come,"  she  said.  "I 
know  something.  Only  dad  told  me  not  to  tell  you." 

"Then  don't,"  replied  Lenore,  with  a  little  start. 

"But  I'd  never  keep  it,"  burst  out  Kathleen,  breath 
lessly.  "Dad's  going  to  New  York." 

Lenore's  heart  contracted.  She  did  not  know  how  she 
felt.  Somehow  it  was  momentous  news. 

"New  York!    What  for?"  she  asked. 

"  He  says  it's  about  wheat.  But  he  can't  fool  me.  He 
told  me  not  to  mention  it  to  you." 

The  girl  was  keen.  She  wanted  to  prepare  Lenore,  yet 
did  not  mean  to  confide  her  own  suppositions.  Leriore 
checked  a  rush  of  curiosity.  They  went  into  the  house. 
Lenore  hurried  to  change  her  outing  clothes  and  boots, 

334 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

and  then  went  down  to  supper.  Rose  sat  at  table,  but  her 
father  had  not  yet  come  in.  Lenore  called  him.  He 
answered,  and  presently  came  tramping  into  the  dining- 
room,  blustering  and  cheerful.  Not  for  many  months 
had  Lenore  given  her  father  such  close  scrutiny  as  she  did 
then.  He  was  not  natural,  and  he  baffled  her.  A  fleet 
ing,  vague  hope  that  she  had  denied  lodgment  in  her  mind 
seemed  to  have  indeed  been  wild  and  unfounded.  But 
the  very  fact  that  her  father  was  for  once  unfathomable 
made  this  situation  remarkable.  All  through  the  meal 
Lenore  trembled,  and  she  had  to  force  herself  to  eat. 

"Lenore,  I'd  like  to  see  you,"  said  her  father,  at  last, 
as  he  laid  down  his  napkin  and  rose.  Almost  he  con 
vinced  her  then  that  nothing  was  amiss  or  different,  and 
he  would  have  done  so  if  he  had  not  been  too  clever, 
too  natural.  She  rose  to  follow,  catching  Kathleen's 
whisper : 

"Don't  let  him  put  it  over  on  you,  now!" 

Anderson  lighted  a  big  cigar,  as  always  after  supper, 
but  to  Lenore's  delicate  sensitiveness  he  seemed  10  be  too 
long  about  it. 

"Lenore,  I'm  takin'  a  run  to  New  York — leave  to 
night  at  eight — an'  I  want  you  to  sort  of  manage  while 
I'm  gone.  Here's  some  jobs  I  want  the  men  to  do — all 
noted  down  here — an'  you'll  answer  letters,  'phone  calls, 
an'  all  that.  Not  much  work,  you  know,  but  you'll 
have  to  hang  around.  Somethin'  important  might  turn 
up." 

"Yes,  dad.  I'll  be  glad  to,"  she  replied.  "Why- 
why  this  sudden  trip?" 

Anderson  turned  away  a  little  and  ran  his  hand  over  the 
papers  on  his  desk.  Did  she  only  imagine  that  his  hand 
shook  a  little? 

"Wheat  deals,  I  reckon  —  mostly,"  he  said.  "An' 
mebbe  I'll  run  over  to  Washington." 

He  turned  then,  puffing  at  his  cigar,  and  calmly  met  her 
direct  gaze.  If  there  were  really  more  than  he  claimed  in 

335 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

his  going,  he  certainly  did  not  intend  to  tell  her.  Lenore 
tried  to  still  her  mounting  emotion.  These  days  she 
seemed  all  imagination.  Then  she  turned  away  her 
face. 

"Will  you  try  to  find  out  if  Kurt  Dorn  died  of  his  wound 
— and  all  about  him?"  she  asked,  steadily,  but  very  low. 

"Lenore,  I  sure  will!"  he  exclaimed,  with  explosive 
emphasis.  No  doubt  the  sincerity  of  that  reply  was  an 
immense  relief  to  Anderson.  "Once  in  New  York,  I  can 
pull  wires,  if  need  be.  I  absolutely  promise  you  I'll  find 
out — what — all  you  want  to  know." 

Lenore  bade  him  good-by  and  went  to  her  room,  where 
calmness  deserted  her  for  a  while.  Upon  recovering,  she 
found  that  the  time  set  for  her  father's  departure  had 
passed.  Strangely,  then  the  oppression  that  had  weighed 
upon  her  so  heavily  eased  and  lifted.  The  moment 
seemed  one  beyond  her  understanding.  She  attributed 
her  relief,  however,  to  the  fact  that  her  father  would 
soon  end  her  suspense  in  regard  to  Kurt  Dorn. 

In  the  succeeding  days  Lenore  regained  her  old  strength 
and  buoyancy,  and  something  of  a  control  over  the  de 
spondency  which  at  times  had  made  life  misery. 

A  golden  day  of  sunlight  and  azure  blue  of  sky  ushered 
in  the  month  of  June.  "Many  Waters"  was  a  world  of 
verdant  green.  Lenore  had  all  she  could  do  to  keep 
from  flying  to  the  slopes.  But  as  every  day  now  brought 
nearer  the  possibility  of  word  from  her  father,  she  stayed 
at  home.  The  next  morning  about  nine  o'clock,  while 
she  was  at  her  father's  desk,  the  telephone-bell  rang.  It 
did  that  many  times  every  morning,  but  this  ring  seemed 
to  electrify  Lenore.  She  answered  the  call  hurriedly. 

"Hello,  Lenore,  my  girl!  How  are  you?"  came  rolling 
on  the  wire. 

"Dad!     Dad!     Is  it — you?"  cried  Lenore,  wildly. 

"Sure  is.    Just  got  here.    Are  you  an'  the  girls  O.  K.  ?" 

"We're  well— fine.     Oh,  dad  ..." 

"You  needn't  send  the  car.     I'll  hire  one." 
336 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Yes— yes— but,  dad-     Oh,  tell  me  .  .  ." 

"Wait!     I'll  be  there  in  five  minutes." 

She  heard  him  slam  up  the  receiver,  and  she  leaned 
there,  palpitating,  with  the  queer,  vacant  sounds  of  the 
telephone  filling  her  ear. 

"Five  minutes!"  Lenore  whispered.  In  five  more 
minutes  she  would  know.  They  seemed  an  eternity. 
Suddenly  a  flood  of  emotion  and  thought  threatened  to 
overwhelm  her.  Leaving  the  office,  she  hurried  forth  to 
find  her  sisters,  and  not  until  she  had  looked  everywhere 
did  she  remember  that  they  were  visiting  a  girl  friend. 
After  this  her  motions  seemed  ceaseless;  she  could  not 
stand  or  sit  still,  and  she  was  continually  going  to  the  porch 
to  look  down  the  shady  lane.  At  last  a  car  appeared, 
coming  fast.  Then  she  ran  indoors  quite  aimlessly  and 
out  again.  But  when  she  recognized  her  father  all 
her  outward  fears  and  tremblings  vanished.  The  broad, 
brown  flash  of  his  face  was  reality.  He  got  out  of  the  car 
lightly  for  so  heavy  a  man,  and,  talcing  his  valise,  he  dis 
missed  the  chauffeur.  His  smile  was  one  of  gladness,  and 
his  greeting  a  hearty  roar. 

Lenore  met  him  at  the  porch  steps,  seeing  in  him,  feel 
ing  as  she  embraced  him,  that  he  radiated  a  strange 
triumph  and  finality. 

"Say,  girl,  you  look  somethin'  like  your  old  self,"  he 
said,  holding  her  by  the  shoulders.  "Fine!  But  you're 
a  woman  now.  .  .  .  Where  are  the  kids?" 

"They're  away,"  replied  Lenore. 

"How  you  stare !"  laughed  Anderson,  as  with  arm  round 
her  he  led  her  in.  "Anythin'  queer  about  your  dad's 
handsome  mug?" 

His  jocular  tone  did  not  hide  his  deep  earnestness. 
Never  had  Lenore  felt  him  so  forceful.  His  ruggedness 
seemed  to  steady  her  nerves  that  again  began  to  fly. 
Anderson  took  her  into  his  office,  closed  the  door,  threw 
down  his  valise. 

Great  to  be  home!"  he  exploded,  with  heavy  breath. 
337 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Lenore  felt  her  face  blanch;  and  that  intense  quiver 
within  her  suddenly  stilled. 

"Tell  me — quick!"  she  whispered. 

He  faced  her  with  flashing  eyes,  and  all  about  him 
changed.  ' '  You're  an  Anderson !  You  can  stand  shock  ? ' ' 

"Any — any  shock  but  suspense." 

"I  lied  about  the  wheat  deal — about  my  trip  to  New 
York.  I  got  news  of  Dorn.  I  was  afraid  to  tell  you." 

"Yes?" 

"Dorn  is  alive,"  went  on  Anderson. 

Lenore's  hands  went  out  in  mute  eloquence. 

4 '  He  was  all  shot  up.  He  can't  live, ' '  hurried  And erson , 
hoarsely.  "But  he's  alive — he'll  live  to  see  you." 

"Oh!  I  knew,  I  knew!"  whispered  Lenore  clasping 
her  hands.  "Oh,  thank  God!" 

"Lenore,  steady  now.  You're  gettin'  shaky.  Brace 
there,  my  girl !  .  .  .  Dorn's  alive.  I've  brought  him  home. 
He's  here." 

"Here!"  screamed  Lenore. 

"Yes.     They'll  have  him  here  in  half  an  hour." 

Lenore  fell  into  her  father's  arms,  blind  and  deaf  to  all 
outward  things.  The  light  of  day  failed.  But  her  con 
sciousness  did  not  fade.  Before  it  seemed  a  glorious  radi 
ance  that  was  the  truth  lost  for  the  moment,  blindly 
groping  in  whirling  darkness.  When  she  did  feel  herself 
again  it  was  as  a  weak,  dizzy,  palpitating  child,  unable 
to  stand.  Her  father,  in  alarm,  and  probable  anger  with 
himself,  was  coaxing  and  swearing  in  one  breath.  Then 
suddenly  the  joy  that  had  shocked  Lenore  almost  into 
collapse  forced  out  the  weakness  with  amazing  strength. 
She  blazed.  She  radiated.  She  burst  into  utterance  too 
swift  to  understand. 

1 '  Hold  on  there,  girl !' '  interrupted  Anderson.  You've 
got  the  bit  in  your  teeth.  .  .  .  Listen,  will  you?  Let  me 
talk.  Well — well,  there  now.  .  .  .  Sure,  it's  all  right, 
Lenore.  You  made  me  break  it  sudden-like.  .  .  .  Listen. 
There's  all  summer  to  talk.  Just  now  you  want  to  get  a 

338 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

few  details.  Get  'em  straight.  .  .  .  Dorn  is  on  the  way 
here.  They  put  his  stretcher — we've  been  packin'  him 
on  one — into  a  motor-truck.  There's  a  nurse  come  with 
me — a  man  nurse.  We'd  better  put  Dorn  in  mother's 
room.  That's  the  biggest  an'  airiest.  You  hurry  an' 
open  up  the  windows  an'  fix  the  bed.  .  .  .  An'  don't  go 
out  of  your  head  with  joy.  It's  sure  more  'n  we  ever  hoped 
for  to  see  him  alive,  to  get  him  home.  But  he's  done  for, 
poor  boy!  He  can't  live.  .  .  .  An'  he's  in  such  shape 
that  I  don't  want  you  to  see  him  when  they  fetch  him  in. 
Savvy,  girl!  You'll  stay  in  your  room  till  we  call  you. 
An'  now  rustle." 

Lenore  paced  and  crouched  and  lay  in  her  room,  wait 
ing,  listening  with  an  intensity  that  hurt.  When  a  slow 
procession  of  men,  low-voiced  and  soft-footed,  carried 
Kurt  Dorn  into  the  house  and  up-stairs  Lenore  trembled 
with  a  storm  of  emotion.  All  her  former  agitation,  love, 
agony,  and  suspense,  compared  to  what  she  felt  then,  was 
as  nothing.  Not  the  joy  of  his  being  alive,  not  the  terror 
of  his  expected  death,  had  so  charged  her  heart  as  did  this 
awful  curiosity  to  see  him,  to  realize  him. 

At  last  a  step — a  knock — her  father's  voice:  "Lenore 
—come!" 

Her  ordeal  of  waiting  was  over.  All  else  she  could 
withstand.  That  moment  ended  her  weakness.  Her 
blood  leaped  with  the  irresistible,  revivifying  current  of 
her  spirit.  Unlocking  the  door,  Lenore  stepped  out.  Her 
father  stood  there  with  traces  of  extreme  worry  fading 
from  his  tired  face.  At  sight  of  her  they  totally 
vanished. 

"Good!  You've  got  nerve.  You  can  see  him  now 
alone.  He's  unconscious.  But  he's  not  been  greatly 
weakened  by  the  trip.  His  vitality  is  wonderful.  He 
comes  to  once  in  a  while.  Sometimes  he's  rational. 
Mostly,  though,  he's  out  of  his  head.  An'  his  left  am? 
is  gone." 

339 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Anderson  said  all  this  rapidly  and  low  while  they  walked 
down  the  hall  toward  the  end  room  which  had  not  been 
used  since  Mrs.  Anderson's  death.  The  door  was  ajar. 
Lenore  smelled  strong,  pungent  odors  of  antiseptics. 

Anderson  knocked  softly. 

"  Come  out,  you  men,  an'  let  my  girl  see  him,"  he  called. 

Doctor  Lowell,  the  village  practitioner  Lenore  had 
known  for  years,  tiptoed  out,  important  and  excited. 

"Lenore,  it's  too  bad,"  he  said,  kindly,  and  he  shook 
his  head. 

Another  man  glided  out  with  the  movements  of  a  wom 
an.  He  was  not  young.  His  aspect  was  pale,  serious. 

"Lenore,  this  is  Mr.  Jarvis,  the  nurse.  .  .  .  Now — 
go  in,  an'  don't  forget  what  I  said." 

She  closed  the  door  and  leaned  back  against  it,  con 
scious  of  the  supreme  moment  of  her  life.  Dorn's  face, 
strange  yet  easily  recognizable,  appeared  against  the 
white  background  of  the  bed.  That  moment  was  su 
preme  because  it  showed  him  there  alive,  justifying  the 
spiritual  faith  which  had  persisted  in  her  soul.  If  she 
had  ever,  in  moments  of  distraction,  doubted  God,  she 
could  never  doubt  again. 

The  large  room  had  been  bright,  with  white  curtains 
softly  blowing  inward  from  the  open  windows.  As  she 
crept  forward,  not  sure  on  her  feet,  all  seemed  to  blur,  so 
that  when  she  leaned  over  the  still  face  to  kiss  it  she  could 
not  see  clearly.  Her  lips  quivered  with  that  kiss  and  with 
her  sob  of  thankfulness. 

"My  soldier!" 

She  prayed  then,  with  her  head  beside  his  on  the  pil 
low,  and  through  that  prayer  and  the  strange  stillness  of 
her  lover  she  received  a  subtle  shock.  Sweet  it  was  to 
touch  him  as  she  bent  with  eyes  hidden.  Terrible  it 
would  be  to  look — to  see  how  the  war  had  wrecked  him. 
She  tried  to  linger  there,  all  tremulous,  all  gratitude,  all 
woman  and  mother.  But  an  incalculable  force  lifted  her 
u^>  from  her  knees. 

340 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Ah!"  she  gasped,  as  she  saw  him  with  cleared  sight. 
A  knife-blade  was  at  her  heart.  Kurt  Dorn  lay  before 
her  gaze — a  man,  and  not  the  boy  she  had  sacrificed  to 
war — a  man  by  a  larger  frame,  and  by  older  features,  and 
by  a  change  difficult  to  grasp. 

These  features  seemed  a  mask,  transparent,  unable  to 
hide  a  beautiful,  sad,  stern,  and  ruthless  face  beneath, 
which  in  turn  slowly  gave  to  her  startled  gaze  sloping  lines 
of  pain  and  shades  of  gloom,  and  the  pale,  set  muscles  of 
forced  manhood,  and  the  faint  hectic  flush  of  fever  and 
disorder  and  derangement.  A  livid,  angry  scar,  smooth, 
yet  scarcely  healed,  ran  from  his  left  temple  back  as  far 
as  she  could  see.  That  established  his  identity  as  a 
wounded  soldier  brought  home  from  the  war.  Otherwise 
to  Lenore  his  face  might  have  been  that  of  an  immortal 
suddenly  doomed  with  the  curse  of  humanity,  dying  in 
agony.  She  had  expected  to  see  Dorn  bronzed,  haggard, 
gaunt,  starved,  bearded  and  rough-skinned,  bruised  and 
battered,  blinded  and  mutilated,  with  gray  in  his  fair 
hair.  But  she  found  none  of  these.  Her  throbbing  heart 
sickened  and  froze  at  the  nameless  history  recorded  in 
his  face.  Was  it  beyond  her  to  understand  what  had 
been  his  bitter  experience?  Would  she  never  suffer  his 
ordeal?  Never!  That  was  certain.  An  insupportable 
sadness  pervaded  her  soul.  It  was  not  his  life  she  thought 
of,  but  the  youth,  the  nobility,  the  splendor  of  him  that 
war  had  destroyed.  No  intuition,  no  divination,  no  power 
so  penetrating  as  a  woman's  love!  By  that  piercing  light 
she  saw  the  transformed  man.  He  knew.  He  had  found 
out  all  of  physical  life.  His  hate  had  gone  with  his  blood. 
Deeds — deeds  of  terror  had  left  their  imprint  upon  his 
brow,  in  the  shadows  under  his  eyes,  that  resembled 
blank  walls  potent  with  invisible  meaning.  Lenore 
shuddered  through  all  her  soul  as  she  read  the  merciless 
record  of  the  murder  he  had  dealt,  of  the  strong  and  pas 
sionate  duty  that  had  driven  him,  of  the  eternal  remorse. 
But  she  did  not  see  or  feel  that  he  had  found  God;  and, 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

stricken  as  he  seemed,  she  could  not  believe  he  was  near 
to  death. 

This  last  confounding  thought  held  her  transfixed  and 
thrilling,  gazing  down  at  Dom,  until  her  father  entered 
to  break  the  spell  and  lead  her  away. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

IT  was  night.  Lenore  should  have  been  asleep,  but 
she  sat  up  in  the  dark  by  the  window.  Underneath 
on  the  porch,  her  father,  with  his  men  as  audience,  talked 
like  a  torrent.  And  Lenore,  hearing  what  otherwise  would 
never  have  gotten  to  her  ears,  found  listening  irresist 
ible.  Slow,  dragging  footsteps  and  the  clinking  of  spurs 
attested  to  the  approach  of  cowboys. 

"Howdy,    boys!     Sit    down   an'    be   partic'lar  quiet. 
Here's  some  smokes.     I'm  wound  up  an'  gotta  go  off  or 
bust,"  Anderson  said.     "Well,  as  I  was  sayin',  we  folks 
don't  know  there's  a  war,  from  all  outward  sign  here  in 
the  Northwest.     But  in  that  New  York  town  I  just  come 
from — God  Almighty!  what  goin's-on!     Boys,  I  never 
knew  before  how  grand  it  was  to  be  American.  New  York's 
got  the  people,  the  money,  an'  it's  the  outgoin'  an'  incomin' 
place  of  all  pertainin'  to  this  war.     The  Liberty  Loan 
drive  was  on.     The  streets  were  crowded.     Bands  an' 
parades,  grand-opera  stars  singin'  on  the  corners,  famous 
actors  sellin'  bonds,  flags  an'  ribbons  an'  banners  every 
where,  an'  every  third  man  you  bumped  into  wearin' 
some  kind  of  uniform!     An'   the  women  were  runnin' 
wild,  like  a  stampede  of  two-year-olds.  ...  I  rode  down 
Fifth  Avenue  on  one  of  them  high-topped  buses  with 
seats  on.     Talk  about  your  old  stage-coach—why,  these 
'buses  had   'em  beat    a  mile!     I've  rode  some  in  my 
day,  but  this  was  the  ride  of  my  life.     I  couldn't  hear 
myself  think.     Music  at  full  blast,  roar  of  traffic,  voices 
like  whisperin'  without  end,  flash  of  red  an'  white  an' 
blue,  shine  of  a  thousand  automobiles  down  that  won 
derful    street    that's    like   a  canon!     An'  up  overhead 
a    huge    cigar -shaped    balloon,   an'   then    an    airplane 
sailin'  swift   an'  buzzin'  like    a  bee,      Them  was  the 

343 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

first  air-ships  I  ever  seen.  No  wonder — Jim  wanted 
to—" 

Anderson's  voice  broke  a  little  at  this  juncture  and  he 
paused.  All  was  still  except  the  murmur  of  the  running 
water  and  the  song  of  the  insects.  Presently  Anderson 
cleared  his  throat  and  resumed: 

' '  I  saw  five  hundred  Australian  soldiers  just  arrived  in 
New  York  by  way  of  Panama.  Lean,  wiry  boys  like 
Arizona  cowboys.  Looked  good  to  me!  You  ought  to 
have  heard  the  cheerin'.  Roar  an'  roar,  everywhere 
they  marched  along.  I  saw  United  States  sailors,  marines, 
soldiers,  air-men,  English  officers,  an'  Scotch  soldiers. 
Them  last  sure  got  my  eye.  Funny  plaid  skirts  they  wore 
— an'  they  had  bare  legs.  Three  I  saw  walked  lame. 
An'  all  had  medals.  Some  one  said  the  Germans  called 
these  Scotch  'Ladies  from  hell.'  .  .  .  When  I  heard  that 
I  had  to  ask  questions,  an'  I  learned  these  queer-lookin' 
half-women-dressed  fellows  were  simply  hell  with  cold 
steel.  An'  after  I  heard  that  I  looked  again  an'  wondered 
why  I  hadn't  seen  it.  I  ought  to  know  men!  .  .  .  Then 
I  saw  the  outfit  of  Blue  Devil  Frenchmen  that  was  sent 
over  to  help  stimulate  the  Liberty  Loan.  An'  when  I 
seen  them  I  took  off  my  hat.  I've  kno\ved  a  heap  of  tough 
men  an'  bad  men  an'  handy  men  an'  fightin'  men  in  my 
day,  but  I  reckoned  I'd  never  seen  the  like  of  the  Blue 
Devils.  I  can't  tell  you  why,  boys.  Blue  Devils  is  an 
other  German  name  for  a  regiment  of  French  soldiers. 
They  had  it  on  the  Scotchmen.  Any  Western  man,  just 
to  look  at  them,  would  think  of  Wild  Bill  an'  Billy  the  Kid 
an'  Geronimo  an'  Custer,  an'  see  that  mebbe  the  whole 
four  mixed  in  one  might  have  made  a  Blue  Devil. 

"My  young  friend  Dorn,  that's  dyin'  up-stairs,  now — 
he  had  a  name  given  him.  'Pears  that  this  war-time  is 
like  the  old  days  when  we  used  to  hit  on  right  pert  names 
for  everybody.  .  .  .  Demon  Dorn  they  called  him,  an' 
he  got  that  handle  before  he  ever  reached  France.  The 
boys  of  his  outfit  gave  it  to  him  because  of  the  way  he 

344 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

run  wild  with  a  bayonet.     I  don't  want  my  girl  Lenore 
ever  to  know  that. 

"A  soldier  named  Owens  told  me  a  lot.  He  was  the 
corporal  of  Dorn's  outfit,  a  sort  of  foreman,  I  reckon. 
Anyway,  he  saw  Dorn  every  day  of  the  months  they  were 
in  the  service,  an'  the  shell  that  done  Dorn  made  a  cripple 
of  Owens.  This  fellow  Owens  said  Dorn  had  not  got  so 
close  to  his  bunk-mates  until  they  reached  France.  Then 
he  begun  to  have  influence  over  them.  Owens  didn't 
know  how  he  did  it— in  fact,  never  knew  it  at  all  until 
the  outfit  got  to  the  front,  somewhere  in  northern 
France,  in  the  first  line.  They  were  days  in  the  first  line, 
close  up  to  the  Germans,  watchin'  an'  sneakin'  all  the  time, 
shootin'  an'  dodgin',  but  they  never  had  but  one  real 
fight. 

"That  was  when  one  mornin'  the  Germans  came  pilin' 
over  on  a  charge,  far  outnumberin'  our  boys.  Then  it 
happened.  Lord!  I  wish  I  could  remember  how  Owens 
told  that  scrap!  Boys,  you  never  heard  about  a  real 
scrap.  It  takes  war  like  this  to  make  men  fighters.  .  .  . 
Listen,  now,  an'  I'll  tell  you  some  of  the  things  that  come 
off  durin'  this  German  charge.  I'll  tell  them  just  as  they 
come  to  mind.  There  was  a  boy  named  Griggs  who  ran 
the  German  barrage— an'  that's  a  gantlet— seven  times  to 
fetch  ammunition  to  his  pards.  Another  boy,  on  the  same 
errand,  was  twice  blown  off  the  road  by  explodin'  shells, 
an'  then  Vent  back.  Owens  told  of  two  of  his  company 
who  rushed  a  bunch  of  Germans,  killed  eight  of  them,  an' 
captured  their  machine-gun.  Before  that  German  charge 
a  big  shell  came  over  an'  kicked  up  a  hill  of  mud.  Next 
day  the  Americans  found  their  sentinel  buried  in  mud, 
dead  at  his  post,  with  his  bayonet  presented. 

"Owens  was  shot  just  as  he  jumped  up  with  his  pards 
to  meet  the  chargin'  Germans.  He  fell  an'  dragged  him 
self  against  a  wall  of  bags,  where  he  lay  watchin'  the 
fight.  An'  it  so  happened  that  he  faced  Dorn's  squad, 
which  was  attacked  by  three  times  their  number.  He 

345 


THE  DESERT  OF,  WHEAT 

saw  Dorn  shot — go  down,  an'  thought  he  was  done — 
but  no !  Dorn  came  up  with  one  side  of  his  face  all  blood. 
Dixon,  a  college  football  man,  rushed  a  German  who  was 
about  to  throw  a  bomb.  Dixon  got  him,  an'  got  the 
bomb,  too,  when  it  went  off.  Little  Rogers,  an  Irish  boy, 
mixed  it  with  three  Germans,  an'  killed  one  before  he  was 
bayoneted  in  the  back.  Then  Dorn,  like  the  demon  they'd 
named  him,  went  on  the  stampede.  He  had  a  different 
way  with  a  bayonet,  so  Owens  claimed.  An'  Dorn  was 
heavy,  powerful,  an'  fast.  He  lifted  an'  slung  those 
two  Germans,  one  after  another,  quick  as  that ! — like  you'd 
toss  a  couple  of  wheat  sheafs  with  your  pitchfork,  an'  he 
sent  them  rollin',  with  blood  squirtin'  all  over.  An' 
then  four  more  Germans  were  shootin'  at  him.  Right 
into  their  teeth  Dorn  run — laughin'  wild  an'  terrible, 
Owens  said,  an'  the  Germans  couldn't  stop  that  flashin' 
bayonet.  Dorn  ripped  them  all  open,  an'  before  they'd 
stopped  floppin'  he  was  on  the  bunch  that  'd  killed  Brewer 
an'  were  makin'  it  hard  for  his  other  pards.  .  .  .  Whew ! 
— Owens  told  it  all  as  if  it  'd  took  lots  of  time,  but  that 
fight  was  like  lightnin'  an'  I  can't  remember  how  it  was. 
Only  Demon  Dorn  laid  out  nine  Germans  before  they 
retreated.  Nine!  Owens  seen  him  do  it,  like  a  mad 
bull  loose.  Then  the  shell  came  over  that  put  Dorn  out, 
an'  Owens,  too. 

"Well,  Dorn  had  a  mangled  arm  an'  many  wounds. 
They  amputated  his  arm  in  France,  patched  him  up,  an' 
sent  him  back  to  New  York  with  a  lot  of  other  wounded 
soldiers.  They  expected  him  to  die  long  ago.  But  he 
hangs  on.  He's  full  of  lead  now.  What  a  hell  of  a  lot 
of  killin'  some  men  take!  .  .  .  My  boy  Jim  would  have 
been  like  that! 

"So  there,  boys,  you  have  a  little  bit  of  American 
fightin'  come  home  to  you,  straight  an'  true.  I  say  that's 
American.  I've  seen  that  in  a  hundred  men.  An'  that's 
what  the  Germans  have  roused.  Well,  it  was  a  bad 
day  for  them  when  they  figgered  everything  on  paper, 

346 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

had  it  all  cut  an'  dried,  but  failed  to  see  the  spirit 
of  men!" 

Lenore  tore  herself  away  from  the  window  so  that  she 
could  not  hear  any  more,  and  in  the  darkness  of  her  room 
she  began  to  pace  to  and  fro,  beginning  to  undress  for 
bed,  shaking  in  some  kind  of  a  frenzy,  scarcely  knowing 
what  she  was  about,  until  sundry  knocks  from  furniture 
and  the  falling  over  a  chair  awakened  her  to  the  fact  that 
she  was  in  a  tumult. 

"What — am  I — doing?"  she  panted,  in  bewilderment, 
reaching  out  in  the  dark  to  turn  on  the  light. 

Like  awakening  from  a  nightmare,  she  saw  the  bright 
lirht  flash  up.  It  changed  her  feeling.  Who  was  this 
person  whose  image  stood  reflected  in  the  mirror  ?  Lenore' s 
recognition  of  herself  almost  stunned  her.  What  had 
happened?  She  saw  that  her  hair  fell  wildly  over  her 
bare  shoulders;  her  face  shone  white,  with  red  spots  in 
her  cheeks;  her  eyes  seemed  balls  of  fire;  her  lips  had  a 
passionate,  savage  curl;  her  breast,  bare  and  heaving, 
showed  a  throbbing,  tumultuous  heart.  And  as  she  real 
ized  how  she  looked,  it  struck  her  that  she  felt  an  in 
explicable  passion.  She  felt  intense  as  steel,  hot  as  fire, 
quivering  with  the  pulsation  of  rapid  blood,  a  victim  to 
irrepressible  thrills  that  rushed  over  her  from  the  very 
soles  of  her  feet  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  Something 
glorious,  terrible,  and  furious  possessed  her.  When  she 
understood  what  it  was  she  turned  out  the  light  and  fell 
upon  the  bed,  where,  as  the  storm  slowly  subsided,  she 
thought  and  wondered  and  sorrowed,  and  whispered  to 
herself. 

The  tale  of  Dorn's  tragedy  had  stirred  to  the  depths 
the  primitive,  hidden,  and  unplumbed  in  the  unknown 
nature  of  her.  Just  now  she  had  looked  at  herself,  at  her 
two  selves — the  white-skinned  and  fair-haired  girl  that 
civilization  had  produced  —  and  the  blazing,  panting, 
savage  woman  of  the  bygone  ages.  She  could  not  es 
cape  from  either.  The  story  of  Demon  Dorn's  terrible 
*&  347 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

fight  had  retrograded  her,  for  the  moment,  to  the  female  of 
the  species,  more  savage  and  dangerous  than  the  male. 
No  use  to  lie!  She  had  gloried  in  his  prowess.  He  was 
her  man,  gone  out  with  club,  to  beat  down  the  brutes 
that  would  steal  her  from  him. 

"Alas!  What  are  we?  What  am  I?"  she  whispered. 
"Do  I  know  myself?  What  could  I  not  have  done  a 
moment  ago?" 

She  had  that  primitive  thing  in  her,  and,  though  she 
shuddered  to  realize  it,  she  had  no  regret.  Life  was  life. 
That  Dorn  had  laid  low  so  many  enemies  was  grand  to 
her,  and  righteous,  since  these  enemies  were  as  cavemen 
come  for  prey.  Even  now  the  terrible  thrills  chased  over 
her.  Demon  Dorn !  What  a  man !  She  had  known  just 
what  he  would  do — and  how  his  spiritual  life  would  go 
under.  The  woman  of  her  gloried  in  his  fight  and  the  soul 
of  her  sickened  at  its  significance.  No  hope  for  any  man 
or  any  woman  except  in  God! 

These  men,  these  boys,  like  her  father  and  Jake,  like 
Dorn  and  his  comrades — how  simple,  natural,  inevitable, 
elemental  they  were!  They  loved  a  fight.  They  might 
hate  it,  too,  but  they  loved  it  most.  Life  of  men  was  all 
strife,  and  the  greatness  in  them  came  out  in  war.  War 
searched  out  the  best  and  the  worst  in  men.  What  were 
wounds,  blood,  mangled  flesh,  agony,  and  death  to  men — 
to  those  who  went  out  for  liberation  of  something  un- 
proven  in  themselves?  Life  was  only  a  breath.  The 
secret  must  lie  in  the  beyond,  for  men  could  not  act  that 
way  for  nothing.  Some  hidden  purpose  through  the  ages ! 

Anderson  had  summoned  a  great  physician,  a  specialist 
of  world  renown.  Lenore,  of  course,  had  not  been  present 
when  the  learned  doctor  examined  Kurt  Dorn,  but  she 
was  in  her  father's  study  when  the  report  was  made.  To 
Lenore  this  little  man  seemed  all  intellect,  all  science,  all 
electric  current. 

He  stated  that  Dorn  had  upward  of  twenty-five  wounds, 

343 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

some  of  them  serious,  most  trivial,  and  all  of  them 
combined  not  necessarily  fatal.  Many  soldiers  with  worse 
wounds  had  totally  recovered.  Dorii's  vitality  and 
strength  had  been  so  remarkable  that  great  loss  of  blood 
and  almost  complete  lack  of  nourishment  had  not  brought 
about  the  present  grave  condition. 

"  He  will  die,  and  that  is  best  for  him,  "said  the  specialist. 
"His  case  is  not  extraordinary.  I  saw  many  like  it  in 
France  during  the  first  year  of  war  when  I  was  there.  But 
I  will  say  that  he  must  have  been  both  physically  and 
mentally  above  the  average  before  he  went  to  fight.  My 
examination  extended  through  periods  of  his  unconscious 
ness  and  aberration.  Once,  for  a  little  time,  he  came  to, 
apparently  sane.  The  nurse  said  he  had  noticed  several 
periods  of  this  rationality  during  the  last  forty-eight 
hours.  But  these,  and  the  prolonged  vitality,  do  not  offer 
any  hope. 

"An  emotion  of  exceeding  intensity  and  duration  has 
produced  lesions  in  the  kinetic  organs.  Some  passion 
has  immeasurably  activated  his  brain,  destroying  brain 
cells  which  might  not  be  replaced.  If  he  happened  to  live 
he  might  be  permanently  impaired.  He  might  be  neuras 
thenic,  melancholic,  insane  at  times,  or  even  grow  per 
manently  so.  ...  It  is  very  sad.  He  appears  to  have 
been  a  fine  young  man.  But  he  will  die,  and  that  really 
is  best  for  him." 

Thus  the  man  of  science  summed  up  the  biological 
case  of  Kurt  Dorn.  When  he  had  gone  Ande:  son  wore  the 
distressed  look  of  one  who  must  abandon  his  last  hope. 
He  did  not  understand,  though  he  was  forced  to  believe. 
He  swore  characteristically  at  the  luck,  and  then  at  the 
great  specialist. 

"I've  known  Indian  medicine-men  who  could  give  that 
doctor  cards  an'  spades,"  he  exploded,  with  gruff  finality. 

Lenore  understood  her  father  perfectly  and  imagined 
she  understood  the  celebrated  scientist.  The  former  was 
just  human  and  the  latter  was  simply  knowledge.  Neither 

349 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

had  that  which  caused  her  to  go  out  alone  into  the  dark 
night  and  look  up  beyond  the  slow-rising  slope  to  the  stars. 
These  men,  particularly  the  scientist,  lacked  something. 
He  possessed  all  the  wonderful  knowledge  of  body  and 
brain,  of  the  metabolism  and  chemistry  of  the  organs, 
but  he  knew  nothing  of  the  source  of  life.  Lenore  accorded 
science  its  place  in  progress,  but  she  hated  its  elimination 
of  the  soul.  Stronger  than  ever,  strength  to  endure  and  to 
trust  pervaded  her  spirit.  The  dark  night  encompassing 
her,  the  vast,  lonely  heave  of  wheat-slope,  the  dim  sky  with 
its  steady  stars — these  were  voices  as  well  as  tangible 
things  of  the  universe,  and  she  was  in  mysterious  harmony 
with  them.  "Lift  thine  eyes  to  the  hills  from  whence 
cometh  thy  help!" 

The  day  following  the  specialist's  visit  Dorn  surprised 
the  family  doctor,  the  nurse,  Anderson,  and  all  except 
Lenore  by  awakening  to  a  spell  of  consciousness  which 
seemed  to  lift,  for  the  time  at  least,  the  shadow  of  death. 

Kathleen  was  the  first  to  burst  in  upon  Lenore  with 
the  wonderful  news.  Lenore  could  only  gasp  her  intense 
eagerness  and  sit  trembling,  hands  over  her  heart,  while 
the  child  babbled. 

"I  listened,  and  T  peeped  in,"  was  Kathleen's  reiter 
ated  statement.  "Kurt  was  awake.  He  spoke,  too,  but 
very  soft.  Say,  he  knows  he's  at  'Many  Waters.'  I 
heard  him  say,  'Lenore'.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  so  happy,  Lenore 
— that  before  he  dies  he'll  know  you — talk  to  you." 

"Hush,  child!"  whispered  Lenore.  "Kurt's  not  going 
to  die." 

"But  they  all  say  so.  That  funny  little  doctor  yester 
day — he  made  me  tired — but  he  said  so.  I  heard  him 
as  dad  put  him  into  the  car." 

"Yes,  Kathie,  I  heard  him,  too,  but  I  do  not  believe," 
replied  Lenore,  dreamily. 

"Kurt  doesn't  look  so — so  sick,"  went  on  Kathleen. 
"Only  —  only  I  don't  know  what  —  different,  I  guess. 

350 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

I'm  crazy  to  go  in — to  see  him.  Lenore,  will  they  ever 
let  me?" 

Their  father's  abrupt  entrance  interrupted  the  conver 
sation.  He  was  pale,  forceful,  as  when  issues  were  at 
stake  but  were  undecided. 

"Kathie,  go  out,"  he  said. 

Lenore  rose  to  face  him. 

"My  girl — Dorn's  come  to — an*  he's  asked  for  you. 
I  was  for  lettin'  him  see  you.  But  Lowell  an'  Jarvis  say 
no — not  yet.  .  .  .  Now  he  might  die  any  minute.  Seems 
to  me  he  ought  to  see  you.  It's  right.  An'  if  you  say 
so—" 

"Yes,"  replied  Lenore. 

"By  Heaven!  he  shall  see  you,  then,"  said  Anderson, 
breathing  hard.  "I'm  justified  even — even  if  it  .  .  ." 
He  did  not  finish  his  significant  speech,  but  left  her 
abruptly. 

Presently  Lenore  was  summoned.  When  she  left  her 
room  she  was  in  the  throes  of  uncontrolled  agitation,  and 
all  down  the  long  hallway  she  fought  herself.  At  the  half- 
open  door  she  paused  to  lean  against  the  wall.  There 
she  had  the  will  to  still  her  nerves,  to  acquire  serenity; 
and  she  prayed  for  wisdom  to  make  her  presence  and  her 
words  of  infinite  good  to  Dora  in  this  crisis. 

She  was  not  aware  of  when  she  moved — how  she  ever 
got  to  Dorn's  bedside.  But  seemingly  detached  from  her 
real  self,  serene,  with  emotions  locked,  she  was  there  look 
ing  down  upon  him. 

"Lenore!"  he  said,  with  far-off  voice  that  just  reached 
her.  Gladness  shone  from  his  shadowy  eyes. 

"Welcome  home — my  soldier  boy!"  she  replied.  Then 
she  bent  to  kiss  his  cheek  and  to  lay  hers  beside  it. 

"I  never — hoped — to  see  you — again,"  he  went  on. 

"Oh,  but  I  knew!"  murmured  Lenore,  lifting  her  head. 
His  right  hand,  brown,  bare,  and  rough,  lay  outside  the 
coverlet  upon  his  breast.  It  was  weakly  reaching  for  her. 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Lenore  took  it  in  both  hers,  while  she  gazed  steadily 
down  into  his  eyes.  She  seemed  to  see  then  how  he  was 
comparing  the  image  he  had  limned  upon  his  memory  with 
her  face. 

"Changed  —  you're  older  —  more  beautiful  —  yet  the 
same,"  he  said.  "It  seems — long  ago." 

"Yes,  long  ago.  Indeed  I  am  older.  But — all's  well 
that  ends  well.  You  are  back." 

"Lenore,  haven't  you — been  told — I  can't  live?" 

"Yes,  but  it's  untrue,"  she  replied,  and  felt  that  she 
might  have  been  life  itself  speaking. 

"Dear,  something's  gone — from  me.  Something  vital 
gone — with  the  shell  that — took  my  arm." 

"No!"  she  smiled  down  upon  him.  All  the  conviction 
of  her  soul  and  faith  she  projected  into  that  single  word 
and  serene  smile — all  that  was  love  and  woman  in  her 
opposing  death.  A  subtle,  indefinable  change  came  over 
Dorn. 

"Lenore — I  paid — for  my  father,"  he  whispered.  "I 
killed  Huns!  ...  I  spilled  the — blood  in  me — I  hated! 
.  .  .  But  all  was  wrong — wrong!" 

"Yes,  but  you  could  not  help  that,"  she  said,  piercingly. 
"Blame  can  never  rest  upon  you.  You  were  only  an — 
American  soldier.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know!  You  were  magnifi 
cent.  .  .  .  But  your  duty  that  way  is  done.  A  higher 
duty  awaits  you." 

His  eyes  questioned  sadly  and  wonderingly. 

"You  must  be  the  great  sower  of  wheat." 

"Sower  of  wheat?"  he  whispered,  and  a  light  quickened 
in  that  questioning  gaze. 

"  There  will  be  starving  millions  after  this  war.  Wheat 
is  the  staff  of  life.  You  must  get  well.  .  .  .  Listen!" 

She  hesitated,  and  sank  to  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 
"Kurt,  the  day  you're  able  to  sit  up  I'll  marry  you. 
Then  I'll  take  you  home — to  your  wheat-hills." 

For  a  second  Lenore  saw  him  transformed  with  her  spirit, 
her  faith,  her  love,  and  it  was  that  for  which  she  had  prayed. 

352 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

She  had  carried  him  beyond  hopelessness,  beyond  incre 
dulity.  Some  guidance  had  divinely  prompted  her.  And 
when  his  mute  rapture  suddenly  vanished,  when  he  lost 
consciousness  and  a  pale  gloom  and  shade  fell  upon  his 
face,  she  had  no  fear. 

In  her  own  room  she  unleashed  the  strange  bonds  on  her 
feelings  and  suffered  their  recurrent  surge  and  strife,  until 
relief  and  calmness  returned  to  her.  Then  came  a  flash 
ing  uplift  of  soul,  a  great  and  beautiful  exaltation.  Lenore 
felt  that  she  had  been  gifted  with  incalculable  power. 
She  had  pierced  Dorn's  fatalistic  consciousness  with  the 
truth  and  glory  of  possible  life,  as  opposed  to  the  dark  and 
evil  morbidity  of  war.  She  saw  for  herself  the  wonderful 
and  terrible  stairs  of  sand  which  women  had  been  climb 
ing  all  the  ages,  and  must  climb  on  to  the  heights  of  solid 
rock,  of  equality,  of  salvation  for  the  human  race.  She 
saw  woman,  the  primitive,  the  female  of  the  species,  but 
she  saw  her  also  as  the  mother  of  the  species,  made  to  save 
as  well  as  perpetuate,  learning  from  the  agony  of  child 
birth  and  child-care  the  meaning  of  Him  who  said,  "  Thou 
shalt  not  kill!"  Tremendous  would  be  the  final  resist 
ance  of -woman  to  the  brutality  of  man.  Women  were 
to  be  the  saviors  of  humanity.  It  seemed  so  simple  and 
natural  that  it  could  not  be  otherwise.  Lenore  realized, 
with  a  singular  conception  of  the  splendor  of  its  truth, 
that  when  most  women  had  found  themselves,  their 
mission  in  life,  as  she  had  found  hers,  then  would  come  an 
end  to  violence,  to  greed,  to  hate,  to  war,  to  the  black 
and  hideous  imperfection  of  mankind. 

With  all  her  intellect  and  passion  Lenore  opposed  the 
theory  of  the  scientist  and  biologists.  If  they  proved  that 
strife  and  fight  were  necessary  to  the  development  of  man, 
that  without  violence  and  bloodshed  and  endless  conten 
tion  the  race  would  deteriorate,  then  she  would  say  that 
it  would  be  better  to  deteriorate  and  to  die.  Women  all 
would  declare  against  that,  and  in  fact  would  never  be 
lieve.  She  would  never  believe  with  her  heart,  but  if 

353 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

her  intellect  was  forced  to  recognize  certain  theories,  then 
she  must  find  a  way  to  reconcile  life  to  the  inscrutable 
designs  of  nature.  The  theory  that  continual  strife  was 
the  very  life  of  plants,  birds,  beasts,  and  men  seemed  veri 
fied  by  every  reaction  of  the  present;  but  if  these  things 
were  fixed  materialistic  rules  of  the  existence  of  animated 
forms  upon  the  earth,  what  then  was  God,  what  was  the 
driving  force  in  Kurt  Dorn  that  made  war-duty  some  kind 
of  murder  which  overthrew  his  mind,  what  was  the  love 
in  her  heart  of  all  living  things,  and  the  nameless  sub 
lime  faith  in  her  soul? 

"If  we  poor  creatures  must  fight,"  said  Lenore,  and  she 
meant  this  for  a  prayer,  "let  the  women  fight  eternally 
against  violence,  and  let  the  men  forever  fight  their 
destructive  instincts!" 

From  that  hour  the  condition  of  Kurt  Dorn  changed  for 
the  better.  Doctor  Lowell  admitted  that  Lenore  had 
been  the  one  medicine  which  might  defeat  the  death  that 
all  except  she  had  believed  inevitable. 

Lenore  was  permitted  to  see  him  a  few  minutes  every 
day,  for  which  fleeting  interval  she  must  endure  the 
endless  hours.  But  she  discovered  that  only  when  he 
was  rational  and  free  from  pain  would  they  let  her  go  in. 
What  Dorn's  condition  was  all  the  rest  of  the  time  she 
could  not  guess.  But  she  began  to  get  inklings  that  it 
was  very  bad. 

"Dad,  I'm  going  to  insist  on  staying  with  Kurt  as — 
as  long  as  I  want,"  asserted  Lenore,  when  she  had  made 
up  her  mind. 

This  worried  Anderson,  and  he  appeared  at  a  loss  for 
words. 

"I  told  Kurt  I'd  marry  him  the  very  day  he  could  sit 
up,"  continued  Lenore. 

"By  George!  that  accounts,"  exclaimed  her  father. 
"He's  been  tryin'  to  sit  up,  an'  we've  had  hell  with  him." 

"Dai,  he  will  get  well.  And  all  the  sooner  if  I  can  be 
354 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

with  him  more.  He  loves  me.  I  feel  I'm  the  only 
thing  that  counteracts — the— the  madness  in  his  mincl— *• 
the  death  in  his  soul." 

Anderson  made  one  of  his  violent  gestures.  "I  believe 
you.  That  hits  me  with  a  bang.  It  takes  a  woman! 
.  .  .  Lenore,  what's  your  idea?" 

"I  want  to — to  marry  him,"  murmured  Lenore.  "To 
nurse  him — to  take  him  home  to  his  wheat-fields." 

"You  shall  have  your  way,"  replied  Anderson,  begin 
ning  to  pace  the  floor.  "  It  can't  do  any  harm.  It  might 
save  him.  An'  anyway,  you'll  be  his  wife — if  only  for 
.  .  .  By  George!  we'll  do  it.  You  never  gave  me  a 
wrong  hunch  in  your  life  .  .  .  but,  girl,  it  '11  be  hard 
for  you  to  see  him  when — when  he  has  the  spells." 

"Spells!"  echoed  Lenore. 

* '  Yes.  You've  been  told  that  he  raves.  But  you  didnft 
know  how.  Why,  it  gets  even  my  nerve!  It  fascinated 
me,  but  once  was  enough.  I  c<  uldn't  stand  to  see  his 
face  when  his  Huns  come  back  to  him." 

"His  Huns!"  ejaculated  Lenore,  shuddering.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"Those  Huns  he  killed  come  back  to  him.  He  fights 
them.  You  see  him  go  through  strange  motions,  an'  it's 
as  if  his  left  arm  wasn't  gene.  He  uses  his  right  arm — an* 
the  motions  he  makes  are  the  ones  he  made  when  he  killed 
the  Huns  with  his  bayonet.  It's  terrible  to  watch  him — 
the  look  on  his  face !  .  .  .  I  heard  at  the  hospital  in  New. 
York  that  in  France  they  photographed  him  when  he  had 
one  of  the  spells.  .  .  .  I'd  hate  to  have  you  ses  him 
then.  But  maybe  after  Doctor  Lowell  explains  ic,  you'll 
understand." 

"Poor  boy!  How  terrible  for  him  to  live  it  all  over! 
But  when  he  gets  well — when  he  has  his  wheat-hills  and 
me  to  fill  his  mind — those  spells  will  fade." 

"Maybe — maybe.  I  hope  so.  Lord  knows  it's  all 
beyond  me.  But  you're  goin'  to  have  your  way." 

Doctor  Lowell  explained,  to  Lenore  that  Dom,  like  all 
355 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

mentally  deranged  soldiers,  dreamed  when  he  was  asleep, 
and  raved  when  he  was  out  of  his  mind,  of  only  one 
thing — the  foe.  In  his  nightmares  Dorn  had  to  be  held 
forcibly.  The  doctor  said  that  the  remarkable  and  hope 
ful  indication  about  Dorn's  condition  was  a  gradual  daily 
gain  in  strength  and  a  decline  in'the  duration  and  violence 
of  his  bad  spells. 

This  assurance  made  Lenore  happy.  She  began  to 
relieve  the  worn-out  nurse  during  the  day,  and  she  pre 
pared  herself  for  the  first  ordeal  of  actual  experience  of 
Dorn's  peculiar  madness.  But  Dorn  watched  her  many 
hours  and  would  not  or  could  not  sleep  while  she  was 
there;  and  the  tenth  day  of  his  stay  at  "Many  Waters" 
passed  without  her  seeing  what  she  dreaded.  Meanwhile 
he  grew  perceptibly  better. 

The  afternoon  came  when  Anderson  brought  a  minister. 
Then  a  few  moments  sufficed  to  make  Lenore  Dorn's  wife0 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

HHHE  remarkable  happened.  Scarcely  had  the  min- 
I  ister  left  when  Kurt  Dorn's  smiling  wonder  and  hap 
piness  sustained  a  break,  as  sharp  and  cold  and  terrible 
as  if  nature  had  transformed  him  from  man  to  beast. 

His  face  became  like  that  of  a  gorilla.  Struggling  up, 
he  swept  his  right  arm  over  and  outward  with  singular 
twisting  energy.  A  bayonet-thrust!  And  for  him  his 
left  arm  was  still  intact !  A  savage,  unintelligible  battle- 
cry,  yet  unmistakably  German,  escaped  his  lips. 

Lenore  stood  one  instant  petrified.  Her  father,  grind 
ing  his  teeth,  attempted  to  lead  her  away.  But  as  Dorn 
was  about  to  pitch  off  the  bed,  Lenore,  with  piercing  cry, 
ran  to  catch  him  and  force  him  back.  There  she  held 
him,  subdued  his  struggles,  and  kept  calling  with  that 
intensity  of  power  and  spirit  which  must  have  penetrated 
even  his  delirium.  Whatever  influence  she  exerted,  it 
quieted  him,  changed  his  savage  face,  until  he  relaxed  and 
lay  back  passive  and  pale.  It  was  possible  to  tell  exactly 
when  his  reason  returned,  for  it  showed  in  the  gaze  he 
fixed  upon  Lenore. 

"I  had — one — of  my  fits!"  he  said,  huskily. 

"Oh — I  don't  know  what  it  was,"  replied  Lenore,  with 
quavering  voice.  Her  strength  began  to  leave  her  now. 
Her  arms  that  had  held  him  so  firmly  began  to  slip  away. 

"Son,  you  had  a  bad  spell,"  interposed  Anderson,  with 
his  heavy  breathing.  "First  one  she's  seen." 

"Lenore,  I  laid  out  my  Huns  again,"  said  Dorn,  with 
a  tragic  smile.  "Lately  I  could  tell  when — they  were 
coming  back." 

"Did  you  know  just  now?"  queried  Lenore. 

"I  think  so.  I  wasn't  really  out  of  my  head.  I've 
known  when  I  did  that.  It's  a  strange  feeling — thought 

357 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

— memory  .  .  .  and  action  drives  it  away.  Then  I 
seem  always  to  want  to — kill  my  Huns  all  over  again." 

Lenore  gazed  at  him  with  mournful  and  passionate 
tenderness.  "Do  you  remember  that  we  were  just  mar 
ried?"  she  asked. 

"My  wife!"  he  whispered. 

"Husband!  ...  I  knew  you  were  coming  home  to 
me.  ...  I  knew  you  would  not  die.  ...  I  know  you 
will  get  well." 

"I  begin  to  feel  that,  too.  Then  —  maybe  the  black 
spells  will  go  away." 

"They  must  or — or  you'll  lose  me,"  faltered  Lenore. 
"If  you  go  on  killing  your  Huns — over  and  over — it  '11 
be  I  who  will  die." 

She  carried  with  her  to  her  room  a  haunting  sense  of 
Dorn's  reception  of  her  last  speech.  Some  tremendous 
impression  it  made  on  him,  but  whether  of  fear  or  domina 
tion  or  resolve,  or  all  combined,  she  could  not  tell.  She 
had  weakened  in  mention  of  the  return  of  his  phantoms. 
But  neither  Dorn  nor  her  father  ever  guessed  that,  once 
in  her  room,  she  collapsed  from  sheer  feminine  horror  at  the 
prospect  of  seeing  Dorn  change  from  a  man  to  a  gorilla, 
and  to  repeat  the  savage  orgy  of  remurdering  his  Huns. 
That  was  too  much  for  Lenore.  She  who  had  been  in 
vincible  in  faith,  who  could  stand  any  tests  of  endurance 
and  pain,  was  not  proof  against  a  spectacle  of  Dorn's 
strange  counterfeit  presentment  of  the  actual  and  terrible 
killing  he  had  performed  with  a,  bayonet. 

For  days  after  that  she  was  under  a  strain  which  she 
realized  would  break  her  if  it  was  not  relieved.  It  appeared 
to  be  solely  her  fear  of  Dorn's  derangement.  She  was  with 
him  almost  all  the  daylight  hours,  attending  him,  watch 
ing  him  sleep,  talking  a  little  to  him  now  and  then,  seeing 
with  joy  his  gradual  improvement,  feeling  each  day  the 
slow  lifting  of  the  shadow  over  him,  and  yet  every  minute 
of  every  hour  she  waited  in  dread  for  the  return  of  Dorn's 
madness.  It  did  not  come.  If  it  recurred  at  night  she 

353 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

never  was  told.  Then  after  a  week  a  more  pronounced 
change  for  the  better  in  Dorn's  condition  marked  a 
lessening  of  the  strain  upon  Lenore.  A  little  later  it  was 
deemed  safe  to  dismiss  the  nurse.  Lenore  dreaded  the 
first  night  vigil.  She  lay  upon  a  couch  in  Dorn's  room  and 
never  closed  her  eyes.  But  he  slept,  and  his  slumber  ap 
peared  sound  at  times,  and  then  restless,  given  over  to 
dreams.  He  talked  incoherently,  and  moaned ;  and  once 
appeared  to  be  drifting  into  a  nightmare,  when  Lenore 
awakened  him.  Next  day  he  sat  up  and  said  ho  w:,s 
hungry.  Thereafter  Lenore  began  to  lose  her  dread. 

"Well,  son,  let's  talk  wheat,"  said  Anderson,  cheerily, 
one  beautiful  June  morning,  as  he  entered  Dorn  's  room. 

"Wheat!"  sighed  Dorn,  with  a  pathetic  glance  at  his 
empty  sleeve.  "How  can  I  ever  do  a  man's  work  again  in 
the  fields?" 

Lenore  smiled  bravely  at  him.  "You  will  sow  more 
wheat  than  ever,  and  harvest  more,  too." 

"I   should  smile,"   corroborated  Anderson. 

"But  how?     I've  only  one  arm,"  said  Dorn. 

"Kurt,  you  hug  me  better  with  that  one  arm  than 
you  ever  did  with  two  arms,"  replied  Lenore,  in  sublime 
assurance. 

"Son,  you  lose  that  argument,"  roared  Anderson. 
"Me  an'  Lenore  stand  pat.  You'll  sow  more  an'  better 
wheat  than  ever — than  any  other  man  in  the  Northwest. 
Get  my  hunch?  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  tell  you  later.  .  .  .  Now 
see  here,  let  me  declare  myself  about  you.  I  seen  it 
worries  you  more  an'  more,  now  you're  gettin'  well.  You 
miss  that  good  arm,  an'  you  feel  the  pain  of  bullets  that 
still  lodge  somewhere's  in  you,  an'  you  think  you'll  be  a 
criople  always.  Look  things  in  the  face  square.  Sure, 
compared  to  what  you  once  was,  you'll  be  a  cripple. 
But  Kurt  Dorn  weighin'  one  hundred  an'  ninety  let  loose 
on  a  bunch  of  Huns  was  some  man!  My  Gawd!  .  .  . 
Forget  that,  an'  forget  that  you'll  never  chop  a  cord  of 

359 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

wood  again  in  a  day.  Look  at  facts  like  me  an'  Lenore. 
We  gave  you  up.  An'  here  you're  with  us,  comin'  along 
fine,  an'  you'll  be  able  to  do  hard  work  some  day,  if  you're 
crazy  about  it.  Just  think  how  good  that  is  for  Lenore, 
an'  me,  too.  .  .  .  Now  listen  to  this."  Anderson  un 
folded  a  newspaper  and  began  to  read : 

"Continued  improvement,  with  favorable  weather  conditions, 
in  the  winter-wheat  states  and  encouraging  messages  from  the 
Northwest  warrant  an  increase  of  crop  estimates  made  two 
weeks  ago  and  based  mainly  upon  the  government's  report. 
In  all  probability  the  yield  from  winter  fields  will  slightly  exceed 
600,000,000  bushels.  Increase  of  acreage  in  the  spring  states  is 
unexpectedly  large.  For  example,  Minnesota's  Food  Adminis 
trator  says  the  addition  in  his  state  is  40  per  cent,  instead  of  the 
early  estimate  of  20  per  cent.  Throughout  the  spring  area  the 
plants  have  a  good  start  and  are  in  excellent  condition.  It  may 
be  that  the  yield  will  rise  to  300,000,000  bushels,  making  a  total 
of  about  900,000,000.  From  such  a  crop  280,000,000  could  be 
exported  in  normal  times,  and  by  conservation  the  surplus  can 
easily  be  enlarged  to  350,000,000  or  even  400,000,000.  In 
Canada  also  estimates  of  acreage  increase  have  been  too  low. 
It  was  said  that  the  addition  in  Alberta  was  20  per  cent.,  but 
recent  reports  make  it  40  per  cent.  Canada  may  harvest  a 
crop  of  300,000,000  bushels,  or  nearly  70,000,000  more  than 
last  year's.  Our  allies  in  Europe  can  safely  rely  upon  the  ship 
ment  of  500,000,000  bushels  from  the  United  States  and  Canada. 

"After  the  coming  harvest  there  will  be  an  ample  supply  of 
wheat  for  the  foes  of  Germany  at  ports  which  can  easily  be 
reached.  In  addition,  the  large  surplus  stocks  in  Australia 
and  Argentina  will  be  available  when  ships  can  be  spared  for  such 
service.  And  the  ships  are  coming  from  the  builders.  For 
more  than  a  year  to  come  there  will  be  wheat  enough  for  our 
war  partners,  the  Belgians,  and  the  northern  European  neutral 
countries  with  which  we  have  trade  agreements/'* 

Lenore  eagerly  watched  her  husband's  face  in  pleasur 
able  anticipation,  yet  with  some  anxiety.  Wheat  had  been 
a  subject  little  touched  upon  and  the  war  had  never  been 
mentioned. 

360 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Great!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  glow  in  his  cheeks. 
"I've  been  wanting  to  ask.  .  .  .  Wheat  for  the  Allies  and 
neutrals — for  more  thana  year !  .  .  .  Anderson,  the  United 
States  will  feed  and  save  the  world!" 

"1  reckon.  Son,  we're  sendin'  thousands  of  soldiers  a 
day  now — ships  are  buildin'  fast — aeroplanes  comin' 
like  a  swarm  of  bees — money  for  the  government  to  burn 
— an'  every  American  gettin'  mad.  .  .  .  Dorn,  the  Ger 
mans  don't  know  they 're  ruined!  .  .  .  What  do  you  say?" 

Dorn  looked  very  strange.  "Lenore,  help  me  stand 
up,"  he  asked,  with  strong  tremor  in  his  voice. 

''Oh,  Kurt,  you're  not  able  yet,"  appealed  Lenore. 

"Help  me.     I  want  you  to  do  it." 

Lenore  complied,  wondering  and  frightened,  yet  fas 
cinated,  too.  She  helped  him  off  the  bed  and  steadied 
him  on  his  feet.  Then  she  felt  him  release  himself  so  he 
stood  free. 

"What  do  I  say?  Anderson,  I  say  this.  I  killed  Ger 
mans  who  had.  grown  up  with  a  training  and  a  passion  for 
war.  I've  been  a  farmer.  I  did  not  want  to  fight.  Duty 
and  hate  forced  me.  The  Germans  I  met  fell  before  me. 
I  was  shell-shot,  shocked,  gassed,  and  bayoneted.  I 
took  twenty-five  wounds,  and  then  it  was  a  shell  that 
downed  me.  I  saw  my  comrades  kill  and  kill  before  they 
fell.  That  is  American.  Our  enemies  are  driven,  blinded, 
stolid,  brutal,  obsessed,  and  desperate.  They  are  German. 
They  lack — not  strength  nor  efficiency  nor  courage — but 
soul." 

White  and  spent,  Dorn  then  leaned  upon  Lenore  and 
got  back  upon  his  bed.  His  passion  had  thrilled,  her. 
Anderson  responded  with  an  excitement  he  plainly  en 
deavored  to  conceal. 

"  I  get  your  hunch,"  he  said.  "  If  I  needed  any  assurance, 
you've  given  it  to  me.  To  hell  with  the  Germans !  Let's 
don't  talk  about  them  any  more.  .  .  .  An'  to  come  back 
to  our  job.  Wheat !  Son,  I've  plans  that  '11  raise  your 
hair.  We'll  harvest  a  bumper  crop  at  'Many  Waters' 

361 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

in  July.  An'  we'll  sow  two  thousand  acres  of  winter  wheat . 
So  much  for  'Many  Waters.'— I  got  mad  this  summer. 
I  blowed  myself.  I  bought  about  all  the  farms  around 
yours  up  in  the  Bend  country.  Big  harvest  of  spring 
wheat  comin'.  You'll  superintend  that  harvest,  an'  I'll 
look  after  ours  here.  .  .  .  An'  you'll  sow  ten  thousand 
acres  of  fallow  on  your  own  rich  hills — this  fall.  Do  you 
get  that?  Ten  thousand  acres!" 

"Anderson!"  gasped  Dorn. 

' '  Yes,  Anderson, ' '  mimicked  the  rancher.  ' '  My  blood's 
up.  But  I'd  never  have  felt  so  good  about  it  if  you  hadn't 
come  back.  The  land's  not  all  paid  for,  but  it's  ours. 
We'll  meet  our  notes.  I ' ve  been  up  there  twice  this  spring. 
You'd  never  know  a  few  hills  had  burned  over  last  har 
vest.  Olsen,  an'  your  other  neighbors,  or  most  of  them, 
will  work  the  land  on  half-shares.  You'll  be  boss.  An' 
sure  you'll  be  well  for  fall  sowin'.  That  11  make  you  the 
biggest  sower  of  wheat  in  the  Northwest." 

"My  sower  of  wheat!"  murmured  Lenore,  seeing  his 
rapt  face  through  tears. 

"Dreams  are  coming  true,"  he  said,  softly.  "Lenore, 
just  after  I  saw  you  the  second  time — and  fell  so  in  love 
with  you — I  had  vain  dreams  of  you.  But  even  my  wildest 
never  pictured  you  as  the  wife  of  a  wheat  farmer.  I  never 
dreamed  you  loved  wheat." 

"But,  ah,  I  do!"  replied  Lenore.  "Why,  when  I  was 
bom  dad  bought  'Many  Waters'  and  sowed  the  slopes  in 
wheat.  I  remember  how  he  used  to  take  me  up  to  the 
fields  all  green  or  golden.  I've  grown  up  with  wheat. 
I'd  never  want  to  live  anywhere  away  from  it.  Oh,  you 
must  listen  to  me  some  day  while  I  tell  you  what  I  know — 
about  the  history  and  romance  of  wheat." 

"Begin,"  said  Dorn,  with  a  light  of  pride  and  love  and 
wonder  in  his  gaze. 

"  Leave  that  for  some  other  time,"  interposed  Anderson. 
"Son,  would  it  surprise  you  if  I'd  tell  you  that  I've 
.Switched  a  little  in  my  ideas  about  the  L  W,  W,?" 

362 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"No,"  replied  Dorn. 

"Well,  things  happen.  What  made  me  think  hard  was 
the  way  that  government  man  got  results  from  the  I.  W.  W. 
in  the  lumber  country.  You  see,  the  government  had  to 
have  an  immense  amount  of  timber  for  ships,  an'  spruce 
for  aeroplanes.  Had  to  have  it  quick.  An'  all  the 
lumbermen  an'  loggers  were  I.  W.  W. — or  most  of  them. 
Anyhow,  all  the  strikin'  lumbermen  last  summer  belonged 
to  the  I.  W.  W.  These  fellows  believed  that  under  the 
capitalistic  order  of  labor  the  workers  an'  their  employers 
had  nothin'  in  common,  an'  the  government  was  hand 
an'  glove  with  capital.  Now  this  government  official 
went  up  there  an'  convinced  the  I.  W.  W.  that  the  best 
interests  of  the  two  were  identical.  An'  he  got  the  work 
out  of  them,  an'  the  government  got  the  lumber.  He 
dealt  with  them  fairly.  Those  who  were  on  the  level  he 
paid  high  an'  considered  their  wants.  Those  who  were 
crooked  he  punished  accordin'  to  their  offense.  An'  the 
innocent  didn't  have  to  suffer  with  the  guilty. 

"That  deal  showed  me  how  many  of  the  I.  W.  W. 
could  be  handled.  An'  we've  got  to  reckon  with  the 
I.  W.  W.  Most  all  the  farm-hands  in  the  country  belong 
to  it.  This  summer  I'll  give  the  square  harvesters  what 
they  want,  an'  that's  a  big  come-down  for  me.  But 
I  won't  stand  any  monkey  -  bizness  from  sore  -  headed 
disorganizes.  If  men  want  to  work  they  shall  have  work 
at  big  pay.  You  will  follow  out  this  plan  up  in  the  Bend 
country.  We'll  meet  this  labor  union  half-way.  After 
the  war  there  may  come  trouble  between  labor  an'  capital. 
It  begins  to  seem  plain  to  me  that  men  who  work  hard 
ought  to  share  somethin'  of  the  profits.  If  that  doesn't 
settle  the  trouble,  then  we'll  know  we're  up  against  an  out 
fit  with  socialist  an'  anarchist  leaders.  Time  enough  then 
to  resort  to  measures  I  regret  we  practised  last  summer." 

"Anderson,  you're  fine — you're  as  big  as  the  hills!" 
burst  out  Dorn.  "But  you  know  there  was  bad  blood 
here  last  summer.  Did  you  ever  get  proof  that  German 
24  363 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

money  backed  the  I.  W.  W.  to  strike  and  embarrass  our 
government?" 

"No.  But  I  believe  so,  or  else  the  I.  W.  W.  leaders 
took  advantage  of  a  critical  time.  I'm  bound  to  say  that 
now  thousands  of  I.  W.  W.  laborers  are  loyal  to  the 
United  States,  an'  that  made  me  switch." 

"I'll  deal  with  them  the  same  way,"  responded  Dorn, 
with  fervor. 

Then  Lenore  interrupted  their  discussion,  and,  plead 
ing  that  Dorn  was  quite  worn  out  from  excitement  and 
exertion,  she  got  her  father  to  leave  the  room. 

The  following  several  days  Lenore  devoted  to  the  happy 
and  busy  task  of  packing  what  she  wanted  to  take  to 
Dorn's  home.  She  had  set  the  date,  but  had  reserved  the 
pleasure  of  telling  him.  Anderson  had  agreed  to  her 
plan  and  decided  to  accompany  them. 

"I'll  take  the  girls,"  he  said.  "It  '11  be  a  fine  ride  for 
them.  We'll  stay  in  the  village  overnight  an'  come  back 
home  next  day.  .  .  .  Lenore,  it  strikes  me  sudden-like, 
your  leavin'.  .  .  .  What  will  become  of  me?" 

All  at  once  he  showed  the  ravages  of  pain  and  loss  that 
the  last  year  had  added  to  his  life  of  struggle.  Lenore 
embraced  him  and  felt  her  heart  full. 

"Dad,  I'm  not  leaving  you,"  she  protested.  "He'll 
get  well  up  there — find  his  balance  sooner  among  those 
desert  wheat-hills.  We  will  divide  our  time  between  the 
two  places.  Remember,  you  can  run  up  there  any  day. 
Your  interests  are  there  now.  Dad,  don't  think  of  it  as 
separation.  Kurt  has  come  into  our  family — and  we're 
just  going  to  be  away  some  of  the  time." 

Thus  she  won  back  a  smile  to  the  worn  face. 

1 '  We've  all  got  a  weak  spot , ' '  he  said,  musingly.  ' '  Mine 
is  here — an'  it's  a  fear  of  growin'  old  an'  bein'  left  alone. 
That's  selfish.  Life  is  a  queer  mixture.  Sometimes  I 
think  it's  all  selfish.  But  I've  lived,  an'  I  reckon  I've  no 
more  to  ask  for." 

364 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Lenore  could  not  help  being  sad  in  the  midst  of  her 
increasing  happiness.  Joy  to  some  brought  to  others 
only  gloom!  Life  was  sunshine  and  storm — youth  and 
age. 

This  morning  she  found  Kathleen  entertaining  Dorn. 
This  was  the  second  time  the  child  had  been  permitted  to 
see  him,  and  the  immense  novelty  had  not  yet  worn  off. 
Kathleen  was  a  hero-worshiper.  If  she  had  been  de 
voted  to  Dorn  before  his  absence,  she  now  manifested 
symptoms  of  complete  idolatry.  Lenore  had  forbidden 
her  to  question  Dorn  about  anything  in  regard  to  the  war. 
Kathleen  never  broke  her  promises,  but  it  was  plain  that 
Dorn  had  read  the  mute,  anguished  wonder  and  flame  in 
her  eyes  when  they  rested  upon  his  empty  sleeve,  and 
evidently  had  told  her  things.  Kathleen  was  white,  wide- 
eyed,  and  beautiful  then,  with  all  a  child's  imagination 
stirred. 

"  I've  been  telling  Kathie  how  I  lost  my  arm,"  explained 
Dorn. 

' '  I  hate  Germans !  I  hate  war !' '  cried  Kathleen,  passion 
ately. 

"My  dear,  hate  them  always,"  said  Dorn. 

When  Kathleen  had  gone  Lenore  asked  Dorn  if  he 
thought  it  was  right  to  tell  the  child  always  to  hate 
Germans. 

"Right!"  exclaimed  Dorn,  with  a  queer  laugh.  Every 
day  now  he  showed  signs  of  stronger  personality. 
"Lenore,  what  I  went  through  has  confused  my  sense  of 
right  and  wrong.  Some  day  perhaps  it  will  all  come  clear. 
But,  Lenore,  all  my  life,  if  I  live  to  be  ninety,  I  shall  hate 
Germans." 

"Oh,  Kurt,  it's  too  soon  for  you  to — to  be  less  narrow, 
less  passionate,"  replied  Lenore,  with  hesitation.  "I 
understand.  The  day  will  come  when  you'll  not  condemn 
a  people  because  of  a  form  of  government — of  military 
class." 

"It  will  never  come,"  asserted  Dorn,  positively.  "Le- 

365 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

nore,  people  in  our  country  do  not  understand.  They 
are  too  far  away  from  realities.  But  I  was  six  months 
in  France.  I've  seen  the  ruined  villages,  thousands  of 
refugees — and  I've  met  the  Huns  at  the  front.  I  know 
I've  seen  the  realities.  In  regard  to  this  war  I  can  only 
feel.  You've  got  to  go  over  there  and  see  for  yourself 
before  you  realize.  You  can  understand  this — that  but  for 
you  and  your  power  over  me  I'd  be  a  worn-out,  emotion 
ally  burnt  out  man.  But  through  you  I  seem  to  be  re 
born.  Still,  I  shall  hate  Germans  all  my  life,  and  in  the 
after-life,  whatever  that  may  be.  I  could  give  you  a 
thousand  reasons.  One  ought  to  suffice.  You've  read,  of 
course,  about  that  regiment  of  Frenchmen  called  Blue 
Devils.  I  met  some  of  them — got  friendly  with  them. 
They  are  great — beyond  words  to  tell !  One  of  them  told 
me  that  when  his  regiment  drove  the  Huns  out  of  his 
own  village  he  had  found  his  mother  disemboweled,  his 
wife  violated  and  murdered,  his  sister  left  a  maimed  thing 
to  become  the  mother  of  a  Hun,  his  daughter  carried  off, 
and  his  little  son  crippled  for  life !  .  .  .  These  are  cold  facts. 
As  long  as  I  live  I  will  never  forget  the  face  of  that  French 
man  when  he  told  me.  Had  he  cause  to  hate  the  Huns? 
Have  !?...!  saw  all  that  in  the  faces  of  those  Huns  who 
would  have  killed  me  if  they  could." 

Lenore  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "Oh — 
horrible!  ...  Is  there  nothing — no  hope — only  .  .  .  ?" 
She  faltered  and  broke  down. 

"Lenore,  because  there's  hate  does  not  prove  there's 
nothing  left.  .  .  .  Listen.  The  last  fight  I  had  was  with 
a  boy.  I  didn't  know  it  when  we  met.  I  was  rushing, 
head  down,  bayonet  low.  I  saw  only  his  body,  his  blade 
that  clashed  with  mine.  To  me  his  weapon  felt  like  a 
toy  in  the  hands  of  a  child.  I  swept  it  aside — and  lunged. 
He  screamed  'Kamarad!'  before  the  bk.de  reached  him. 
Too  late!  I  ran  him  through.  Then  I  looked.  A  boy 
of  nineteen !  He  never  ought  to  have  been  forced  to  meet 
me.  It  was  murder.  I  saw  him  die  on  my  bayonet. 

366 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

I  saw  him  slide  off  it  and  stretch  out.  ...  I  did  not  hate 
him  then.  I'd  have  given  my  life  for  his.  I  hated  what 
he  represented.  .  .  .  That  moment  was  the  end  of  me 
as  a.  soldier.  If  I  had  not  been  in  range  of  the  ex 
ploding  shell  that  downed  me  I  would  have  dropped 
my  rifle  and  have  stood  strengthless  before  the  next 
Hun.  ...  So  you  see,  though  I  killed  then,  and  though 
I  hate  now,  there's  something — something  strange  and 
inexplicable." 

"That  something  is  the  divine  in  you.  It  is  God!  .  .  . 
Oh,  believe  it,  my  husband!"  cried  Lenore. 

Dorn  somberly  shook  his  head.  "God!  I  did  not  find 
God  out  there.  I  cannot  see  God's  hand  in  this  infernal 
war." 

"But  I  can.  What  called  you  so  resistlessly ?  What 
made  you  go?" 

"You  know.  The  debt  I  thought  I  ought  to  pay.  And 
duty  to  my  country." 

"Then  when  the  debt  was  paid,  the  duty  fulfilled — 
wher.  you  stood  stricken  at  sight  of  that  poor  boy  dying 
on  your  bayonet — what  happened  in  your  soul?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  I  saw  the  wrong  of  war.  The 
wrong  to  him — the  wrong  to  me!  I  thought  of  no  one 
else.  Certainly  not  of  God!" 

"If  you  had  stayed  your  bayonet — if  you  had  spared 
that  boy,  as  you  would  have  done  had  you  seen  or  heard 
him  in  time — what  would  that  have  been?" 

"Pity,  maybe,  or  scorn  to  slay  a  weaker  foe." 

"No,  no,  no — I  can't  accept  that,"  replied  Lenore, 
passionately.  "Can't  you  see  beyond  the  physical?" 

"I  see  only  that  men  will  fight  and  that  war  will  come 
again.  Out  there  I  learned  the  nature  of  men." 

"If  there's  divinity  in  you  there's  divinity  in  every 
man.  That  will  oppose  war — end  it  eventually.  Men 
are  not  taught  right.  Education  and  religion  will  bring 
peace  on  earth,  good- will  to  man." 

"No,  they  will  not.  They  never  have  done  so.  We 

367 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

have  educated  men  and  religious  men.  Yet  war  comes 
despite  them.  The  truth  is  that  life  is  a  fight.  Civiliza 
tion  is  only  skin-deep.  Underneath  man  is  still  a  savage. 
He  is  a  savage  still  because  he  wants  the  same  he  had  to 
have  when  he  lived  in  primitive  state.  War  isn't  neces 
sary  to  show  how  every  man  fights  for  food,  clothing, 
shelter.  To-day  it's  called  competition  in  business.  Look 
at  your  father.  He  has  fought  and  beaten  men  like 
Neuman.  Look  at  the  wheat  farmers  in  my  country. 
Look  at  the  I.  W.  W.  They  all  fight.  Look  at  the 
children.  They  fight  even  at  their  games.  Their  play  is  a 
make-believe  battle  or  escaping  or  funeral  or  capture. 
It  must  be  then  that  some  kind  of  strife  was  implanted 
in  the  first  humans  and  that  it  is  necessary  to  life." 

"Survival  of  the  fittest!"  exclaimed  Lenore,  in  earnest 
bitterness.  "Kurt,  we  have  changed.  You  are  facing 
realities  and  I  am  facing  the  infinite.  You  represent  the 
physical,  and  I  the  spiritual.  We  must  grow  into  harmony 
with  each  other.  We  can't  ever  hope  to  learn  the  un 
attainable  truth  of  life.  There  is  something  beyond 
us — something  infinite  which  I  believe  ic:  God.  My  soul 
finds  it  in  you.  .  .  .  The  first  effects  of  the  war  upon  you 
have  been  trouble,  sacrifice,  pain,  and  horror.  You 
have  come  out  of  it  impaired  physically  and  with  mind 
still  clouded.  These  will  pass,  and  therefore  I  beg  of 
you  don't  grow  fixed  in  absolute  acceptance  of  the  facts 
of  evolution  and  materialism.  They  cannot  be  denied, 
I  grant.  I  see  that  they  are  realities.  But  also  I  see 
beyond  them.  There  is  some  great  purpose  running 
through  the  ages.  In  our  day  the  Germans  have  risen, 
and  in  the  eyes  of  most  of  the  world  theix*  brutal  force 
tends  to  halt  civilization  and  kill  idealism.  But  that's  only 
apparent — only  temporary.  We  shall  come  out  of  this 
dark  time  better,  finer,  wiser.  The  history  of  the  world 
is  a  proof  of  a  slow  growth  and  perfection.  It  will  never 
be  attained.  But  is  not  the  growth  a  beautiful  and  divine 
thing?  Does  it  not  oppose  a  hopeless  prospect?  .  .  . 

'  368 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

Life  is  inscrutable.  When  I  think — only  think  without 
faith — all  seems  so  futile.  The  poet  says  we  are  here  as 
on  a  darkling  plain,  swept  by  confused  alarms  of  struggle 
and  flight,  where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night.  .  .  . 
Trust  me,  my  husband !  There  is  something  in  woman — 
the  instinct  of  creation — the  mother — that  feels  what  can 
not  be  expressed.  It  is  the  hope  of  the  world." 

"The  mother!"  burst  out  Dorn.  "I  think  of  that— in 
you.  .  .  .  Suppose  I  have  a  son,  and  war  comes  in  his 
day.  Suppose  he  is  killed,  as  I  killed  that  poor  boy !  .  .  . 
How,  then,  could  I  reconcile  that  with  this — this  something 
you  feel  so  beautifully?  This  strange  sense  of  God! 
This  faith  in  a  great  purpose  of  the  ages!" 

Lenore  trembled  in  the  exquisite  pain  of  the  faith  which 
she  prayed  was  beginning  to  illumine  Dorn's  dark  and 
tragic  soul. 

"If  we  are  blessed  with  a  son — and  if  he  must  go  to 
war — to  kill  and  be  killed — you  will  reconcile  that  with 
God  because  our  son  shall  have  been  taught  what  you 
should  have  been  taught — what  must  be  taught  to  all  the 
sons  of  the  future." 

"What  will— tnat  be?"  queried  Dorn. 

"The  meaning  of  life  —  the  truth  of  immortality," 
replied  Lenore.  "We  live  on  —  we  improve.  That  is 
enough  for  faith." 

"How  will  that  prevent  war?" 

"It  will  prevent  it — in  the  years  to  come.  Mothers 
will  take  good  care  that  children  from  babyhood  shall 
learn  the  consequences  of  fight — of  war.  Boys  will  learn 
that  if  the  meaning  of  war  to  them  is  the  wonder  of  charge 
and  thunder  of  cannon  and  medals  of  distinction,  to  their 
mothers  the  meaning  is  loss  and  agony.  They  will  learn 
the  terrible  difference  between  your  fury  and  eagerness  to 
lunge  with  bayonet  and  your  horror  of  achievement  when 
the  disemboweled  victim?  lie  before  you.  The  glory  of  a 
statue  to  the  great  general  means  countless  and  nameless 
graves  of  forgotten  soldiers.  The  joy  of  the  conquering 

369 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

army  contrasts  terribly  with  the  pain  and  poverty  and 
unquenchable  hate  of  the  conquered." 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  rejoined  Dorn.  "Such  teach 
ing  of  children  would  change  the  men  of  the  future.  It 
would  mean  peace  for  the  generations  to  come.  But  as 
for  my  boy — it  would  make  him  a  poor  soldier.  He  would 
not  be  a  fighter.  He  would  fall  easy  victim  to  the  son  of 
the  father  who  had  not  taught  this  beautiful  meaning  of 
life  and  terror  of  war.  I'd  want  my  son  to  be  a  man." 

"That  teaching — would  make  him — all  the  more  a 
man,"  said  Lenore,  beginning  to  feel  faint. 

"But  not  in  the  sense  of  muscle,  strength,  courage, 
endurance.     I'd  rather  there  never  was  peace  than  have* 
my  son  inferior  to  another  man's." 

"My  hope  for  the  future  is  that  all  men  will  come  to 
teach  their  sons  the  wrong  of  violence." 

"Lenore,  never  will  that  day  come,"  replied  Dorn. 

She  saw  in  him  the  inevitableness  of  the  masculine  atti 
tude;  the  difference  between  man  and  woman;  the  pre 
ponderance  of  blood  and  energy  over  the  higher  motives. 
She  felt  a  weak  little  woman  arrayed  against  the  whole  of 
mankind.  But  she  could  not  despair.  Unquenchable  as 
the  sun  was  this  fire  within  her. 

"But  it  might  come?"  she  insisted,  gently,  but  with 
inflexible  spirit. 

"Yes,  it  might — if  men  change!" 

"You  have  changed." 

"Yes.     I  don't  know  myself." 

"  If  we  do  have  a  boy,  will  you  let  me  teach  him  what  I 
think  is  right?"  Lenore  went  on,  softly. 

"Lenore!  As  if  I  would  not!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  try 
to  see  your  way,  but  just  because  I  can't  I'll  never  oppose 
you.  Teach  me  if  you  can!" 

She  kissed  him  and  knelt  beside  his  bed,  grieved  to  see 
shadow  return  to  his  face,  yet  thrilling  that  the  way  seemed 
open  for  her  to  inspire.  But  she  must  never  again  choose 
to  talk  of  war,  of  materialism,  of  anything  calculated  to 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

make  him  look  into  darkness  of  his  soul,  to  ponder  ov*. 
the  impairment  of  his  mind.  She  remembered  the  greaii 
specialist  speaking  of  lesions  of  the  organic  system,  of  a 
loss  of  brain  cells.  Her  inspiration  must  be  love,  charm, 
care — a  healing  and  building  process.  She  would  give 
herself  in  all  the  unutterableness  and  immeasurableness 
of  her  woman's  heart.  She  would  order  his  life  so  that  it 
would  be  a  fulfilment  of  his  education,  of  a  heritage  from 
his  fathers,  a  passion  born  in  him,  a  noble  work  through 
which  surely  he  could  be  saved — the  cultivation  of  wheat. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  she  whispered. 

"Do  I!  ...  Nothing  could  ever  change  my  love  for 
you." 

"I  am  your  wife,  you  know." 

The  shadow  left  his  face. 

"Are  you?     Really?     Lenore  Anderson  ..." 

"Lenore  Dorn.     It  is  a  beautiful  name  now." 

"  It  does  sound  sweet.  But  you — my  wife  ?  Never  will 
I  believe!" 

"You  will  have  to — very  soon." 

"Why?"  A  light,  warm  and  glad  and  marveling,  shone 
in  his  eyes.  Indeed,  Lenore  felt  then  a  break  in  the 
strange  aloofness  of  him — in  his  impersonal,  gentle  ac 
ceptance  of  her  relation  to  him. 

"To-morrow  I'm  going  to  take  you  home  to  your  wheat- 
hills." 


CHAPTER  XXXH 

T  ENORE  told  her  conception  of  the  history  and  the 
L-rf  romance  of  wheat  to  Dorn  at  this  critical  time  when 
it  was  necessary  to  give  a  trenchant  call  to  hope  and  future. 

In  the  beginning  man's  struggle  was  for  life  and  the 
mainstay  of  life  was  food.  Perhaps  the  original  discoverer 
of  wheat  was  a  meat-eating  savage  who,  in  roaming  the 
forests  and  fields,  forced  by  starvation  to  eat  bark  and 
plant  and  berry,  came  upon  a  stalk  of  grain  that  chewed 
with  strange  satisfaction.  Perhaps  through  that  acci 
dent  he  became  a  sower  of  wheat. 

Who  actually  were  the  first  sowers  of  wheat  would  never 
be  known.  They  were  older  than  any  history,  and  must 
have  been  among  the  earliest  of  the  human  race. 

The  development  of  grain  produced  wheat,  and  wheat 
was  ground  into  flour,  and  flour  was  baked  into  bread, 
and  bread  had  for  untold  centuries  been  the  sustenance 
and  the  staff  of  life. 

Centuries  ago  an  old  Chaldean  priest  tried  to  ascertain 
if  wheat  had  ever  grown  wild.  That  question  never  was 
settled.  It  was  universally  believed,  however,  that  wheat 
had  to  have  the  cultivation  of  man.  Nevertheless,  the 
origin  of  the  plant  must  have  been  analogous  to  that  of 
other  plants.  Wheat-growers  must  necessarily  have  been 
people  who  stayed  long  in  one  place.  Wandering  tribes 
could  not  till  and  sow  the  fields.  The  origin  of  wheat 
furnished  a  legendary  theme  for  many  races,  and  mythol 
ogy  contained  tales  of  wheat-gods  favoring  chosen  peoples. 
Ancient  China  raised  wheat  twenty-seven  centuries  before 
Christ;  grains  of  wheat  had  been  found  in  prehistoric 
ruins;  the  dwellers  along  the  Nile  were  not  blind  to  the 
fertility  of  the  valley.  In  the  days  of  the  Pharaohs  the 
old  river  annually  inundated  its  low  banks,  enriching  the 

372 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

soil  of  vast  areas,  where  soon  a  green-and-gold  ocean  of 
wheat  waved  and  shone  under  the  hot  Egyptian  sun. 
The  Arabs,  on  their  weird  beasts  of  burden,  rode  from 
the  desert  wastes  down  to  the  land  of  waters  and  of 
plenty.  Rebekah,  when  she  came  to  fill  her  earthen 
pitcher  at  the  palm-shaded  well,  looked  out  with  dusky, 
dreamy  eyes  across  the  golden  grain  toward  the  mysteri 
ous  east.  Moses,  when  he  stood  in  the  night,  watching 
his  flock  on  the  starlit  Arabian  waste,  felt  borne  to  him 
on  the  desert  wind  a  scent  of  wheat.  The  Bible  said,  "He 
maketh  peace  in  thy  borders  and  filleth  thee  with  the  fin 
est  of  the  wheat." 

Black-bread  days  of  the  Middle  Ages,  when  crude  grind 
ing  made  impure  flour,  were  the  days  of  the  oppressed 
peasant  and  the  rich  landowner ;  dark  days  of  toil  and  pov 
erty  and  war,  of  blight  and  drought  and  famine;  when 
common  man  in  his  wretchedness  and  hunger  cried  out, 
"Bread  or  blood!" 

But  with  the  spreading  of  wheat  came  the  dawn  of  a 
higher  civilization ;  and  the  story  of  wheat  down  to  modern 
times  showed  the  development  of  man.  Wheat-fields  of 
many  lands,  surrounding  homes  of  prosperous  farmers; 
fruitful  toil  of  happy  peoples;  the  miller  and  his  humming 
mill! 

When  wheat  crossed  the  ocean  to  America  it  came  to 
strange  and  wonderful  fulfilment  of  its  destiny.  America, 
fresh,  vast,  and  free,  with  its  sturdy  pioneers  ever  spread 
ing  the  golden  grain  westward ;  with  the  advancing  years 
when  railroad  lines  kept  pace  with  the  indomitable  wheat- 
sowers;  with  unprecedented  harvests  yielding  records 
to  each  succeeding  year;  with  boundless  fields  tilled  and 
planted  and  harvested  by  machines  that  were  mechanical 
wonders;  with  enormous  flour  -  mills,  humming  and 
whirring,  each  grinding  daily  ten  thousand  barrels  of 
flour,  pouring  like  a  white  stream  from  the  steel  rolls, 
pure,  clean,  and  sweet,  the  whitest  and  finest  in  the  world! 

America,  the  new  country,  became  in  1918  the  salva- 

373 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

tion  of  starving  Belgium,  the  mainstay  of  England,  the 
hope  of  France!  Wheat  for  the  world!  Wheat — that 
was  to  say  food,  strength,  fighting  life  for  the  armies 
opposed  to  the  black,  hideous,  medieval  horde  of  Huns! 
America  to  succor  and  to  save,  to  sacrifice  and  to  sowp 
rising  out  of  its  peaceful  slumber  to  a  mighty  wrath, 
magnificent  and  unquenchable,  throwing  its  vast  resources 
of  soil,  its  endless  streams  of  wheat,  into  the  gulf  of  war! 
It  was  an  exalted  destiny  for  a  people.  Its  truth  was  a 
blazing  affront  in  the  face  of  age-old  autocracy.  Fields 
and  toil  and  grains  of  wheat,  first  and  last,  the  salvation 
of  mankind,  the  freedom  and  the  food  of  the  world ! 

Far  up  the  slow-rising  bulge  of  valley  slope  above  the 
gleaming  river  two  cars  climbed  leisurely  and  rolled  on 
over  the  height  into  what  seemed  a  bare  and  lonely  land 
of  green. 

It  was  a  day  in  June,  filled  with  a  rich,  thick,  amber 
light,  with  a  fragrant  warm  wind  blowing  out  of  the  west. 

At  a  certain  point  on  this  road,  where  Anderson  always 
felt  compelled  to  halt,  he  stopped  the  car  this  day  and 
awaited  the  other  that  contained  Lenore  and  Dorn. 

Lenore's  joy  in  the  ride  was  reflected  in  her  face.  Dom 
rested  comfortably  beside  her,  upon  an  improvised  couch. 
As  he  lay  half  propped  up  by  pillows  he  could  see  out  across 
the  treeless  land  that  he  knew.  His  eyes  held  a  look  of  the 
returned  soldier  who  had  never  expected  to  see  his  native 
land  again.  Lenore,  sensitive  to  every  phase  of  his  feeling, 
watched  him  with  her  heart  mounting  high. 

Anderson  got  out  of  his  car,  followed  by  Kathleen,  who 
looked  glad  and  mischievous  and  pretty  as  a  wild  rose. 

"I  just  never  can  get  by  this  place,"  explained  the 
rancher,  as  he  came  and  stood  so  that  he  could  put  a  hand 
on  Dorn's  knee.  "Look,  son — an'  Lenore,  don't  you  miss 
this." 

1 '  Never  fear,  dad, ' '  replied  Lenore.  * '  It  was  I  who  first 
told  you  to  look  here." 

374 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

"Terrible  big  and  bare,  but  grand !" exclaimed  Kathleen. 

Lenore  looked  first  at  Dorn's  face  as  he  gazed  away 
across  the  length  and  breadth  of  land.  Could  that  land 
mean  as  much  to  him  as  it  did  before  he  went  to  war? 
Infinitely  more,  she  saw,  and  rejoiced.  Her  faith  was 
coming  home  to  her  in  verities.  Then  she  thrilled  at  the 
wide  prospect  before  her. 

It  was  a  scene  that  she  knew  could  not  be  duplicated 
in  the  world.  Low,  slow-sloping,  billowy  green  hills,  bare 
and  smooth  with  square  brown  patches,  stretched  away 
to  what  seemed  infinite  distance.  Valleys  and  hills,  with 
less  fallow  ground  than  ever  before,  significant  and  strik 
ing:  lost  the  meager  details  of  clumps  of  trees  and  dots 
of  houses  in  a  green  immensity.  A  million  shadows 
out  of  the  west  came  waving  over  the  wheat.  They 
were  ripples  of  an  ocean  of  grain.  No  dust-clouds, 
no  bleached  roads,  no  yellow  hills  to-day!  June,  and  the 
desert  found  its  analogy  only  in  the  sweep  and  reach! 
A  thousand  hills  billowing  away  toward  that  blue  haze  of 
mountain  range  where  rolled  the  Oregon.  Acreage  and 
mileage  seemed  insignificant.  All  was  green  —  green, 
the  fresh  and  hopeful  color,  strangely  serene  and  sweet 
and  endless  under  the  azure  sky.  Beautiful  and  lonely 
hills  they  were,  eloquent  of  toil,  expressive  with  the  brown 
squares  in  the  green,  the  lowly  homes  of  men,  the  long 
lines  of  roads  running  everywhither,  overwhelmingly 
pregnant  with  meaning — wheat — wheat — wheat — nothing 
but  wheat,  a  staggering  visual  manifestation  of  vital  need, 
of  noble  promise. 

"That — that!"  rolled  out  Anderson,  waving  his  big 
hand,  as  if  words  were  useless.  "Only  a  corner  of  the 
great  old  U.  S. !  .  .  .  What  would  the  Germans  say  if  they 
could  look  out  over  this? .  .  .  What  do  you  say,  Lenore?" 

"Beautiful!"  she  replied,  softly.  "Like  the  rainbow  in 
the  sky — God's  promise  of  life!" 

"An',  Kathie,  what  do  you  say?"  went  on  Anderson. 

"Some  wheat-fields!"  replied  Kathleen,  with  an  air  of 
375 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

woman's  wisdom.  "Fetch  on  your  young  wheat-sowers, 
dad,  and  I'll  pick  out  a  husband.'* 

"An'  you,  son?"  finished  Anderson,  as  if  wistfully,  yet 
heartily  playing  his  last  card.  He  was  remembering  Jim 
— the  wild  but  beloved  son — the  dead  soldier.  He  was 
fearful  for  the  crowning  hope  of  his  years. 

"As  ye  sow — so  shall  ye  reap!"  was  Dorn's  reply,  strong 
and  thrilling.  And  Lenore  felt  her  father's  strange, 
heart-satisfying  content. 

Twilight  crept  down  around  the  old  home  on  the  hill. 

Dorn  was  alone,  leaning  at  the  window.  He  had  just 
strength  to  lean  there,  with  uplifted  head.  Lenore  had 
left  him  alone,  divining  his  wish.  As  she  left  him  there 
came  a  sudden  familiar  happening  in  his  brain,  like  a 
snap-back,  and  the  contending  tide  of  gray  forms — the 
Huns — rushed  upon  him.  He  leaned  there  at  the  window, 
but  just  the  same  he  awaited  the  shock  on  the  ramparts 
of  the  trench.  A  ferocious  and  terrible  storm  of  brain, 
that  used  to  have  its  reaction  in  outward  violence,  now 
worked  inside  him,  like  a  hot  wind  that  drove  his  blood. 
During  the  spell  he  fought  out  his  great  fight — again  for 
the  thousandth  time  he  rekilled  his  foes.  That  storm 
passed  through  him  without  an  outward  quiver. 

His  Huns — charged  again — bayoneted  again — and  he 
felt  acute  pain  in  the  left  arm  that  was  gone.  He  felt 
the  closing  of  the  hand  which  was  not  there.  His  Huns 
lay  in  the  shadow,  stark  and  shapeless,  with  white  faces 
upward — a  line  of  dead  foes,  remorseless  and  abhorrent  to 
him,  forever  damned  by  his  ruthless  spirit.  He  saw  the 
boy  slide  off  his  bayonet,  beyond  recall,  murdered  by 
some  evil  of  which  Dorn  had  been  the  motion.  Then  the 
prone,  gray  forms  vanished  in  the  black  gulf  of  Dorn's 
brain. 

"Lenore  will  never  know — how  my  Huns  come  back  to 
me,"  he  whispered. 

Night  v/ith  its  trains  of  stars!  Softly  the  dark™  TS 

376 


THE  DESERT  OF  WHEAT 

unfolded  down  over  the  dim  hills,  lonely,  tranquil,  sweet. 
A  night-bird  caroled.  The  song  of  insects,  very  faint  and 
low,  came  to  him  like  a  still,  sad  music  of  humanity,  from 
over  the  hills,  far  away,  in  the  strife-ridden  world.  The 
world  of  men  was  there  and  life  was  incessant,  monstrous, 
and  inconceivable.  This  old  home  of  his — the  old  house 
seemed  full  of  well-remembered  sounds  of  mouse  and 
cricket  and  leaf  against  the  roof  and  soft  night  wind  at 
the  eaves — sounds  that  brought  his  boyhood  back,  his  bare 
feet  on  the  stairs,  his  father's  aloofness,  his  mother's  love. 

Then  clearly  floated  to  him  a  slow  sweeping  rustle  of 
the  wheat.  Breast-high  it  stood  down  there,  outside  his 
window,  a  moving  body,  higher  than  the  gloom.  That 
rustle  was  a  voice  of  childhood,  youth,  and  manhood, 
whispering  to  him,  thrilling  as  never  before.  It  was  a 
growing  rustle,  different  from  that  when  the  wheat  had 
matured.  It  seemed  to  change  and  grow  in  volume,  in 
meaning.  The  night  wind  bore  it,  but  life — bursting  life 
was  behind  it,  and  behind  that  seemed  to  come  a  driving 
and  a  mighty  spirit.  Beyond  the  growth  of  the  wheat, 
beyond  its  life  and  perennial  gift,  was  something  measure 
less  and  obscure,  infinite  and  universal.  Suddenly  Dorn 
saw  that  something  as  the  breath  and  the  blood  and  the 
spirit  of  wheat — and  of  man.  Dust  and  to  dust  returned 
they  might  be,  but  this  physical  form  was  only  the  fleeting 
inscrutable  moment  on  earth,  springing  up,  giving  birth 
to  seed,  dying  out  for  that  ever-increasing  purpose  which 
ran- through  the  ages. 

A  soft  footfall  sounded  on  the  stairs.  Lenore  came. 
She  leaned  over  him  and  the  starlight  fell  upon  her  face, 
sweet,  luminous,  beautiful.  In  the  sense  of  her  compelling 
presence,  in  the  tender  touch  of  her  hands,  in  the  whisper 
of  woman's  love,  Dorn  felt  uplifted  high  above  the  dark 
pale  of  the  present  with  its  war  and  pain  and  clouded 
mind  to  wheat — to  the  fertile  fields  of  a  golden  age  to 
come. 

THE    END 


ZANE  GREY'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.        Ask  for  Grosset  &  Bunlap's  Ust 
THE  LIGHT  OF  WESTERN  STARS 

t  A  New  York  society  girl  buys  a  ranch  which  becomes  the  center  of  frontier  war- 
are.  Her  loyal  superintendent  rescues  her  when  she  is  captured  by  bandits  A 
surprising  climax  brings  the  story  to  a  delightf-ul  close. 

THE  RAINBOW  TRAIL 

The  story  of  a  young-  clergyman  who  becomes  a  wanderer  in  the  great  western 
uplands-untd  at  last  love  and  fakh  awake. 

DESERT  GOLD 

The  story  describes  the  recent  uprising:  alone  the  border,  and  ends  with  the  finding 
of  the  gold  which  two  prospectors  had  willed  to  the  girl  who  is  the  story's  heroine. 

RIDERS  OF  THE  PURPLE  SAGE 

A  picturesque  romance  of  Utah  of  some  forty  years  ago  when  Mormon  authority 
ruied.  The  prosecution  of  Jane  Withersteen  is  the  theme  of  the  story. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN 

This  is  the  record  of  a  trip  which  the  author  took  with  Buffalo  Jones,  known  c*s  .he 
preserver  of  the  American  bison,  across  the  Arizona  desert  and  of  a  hunt  in  "'.na< 
wonderful  country  of  deep  canons  and  giant  pines." 

THE  HERITAGE  OF  THE  DESERT 

A  lovely  girl,  who  has  been  reared  among1  Mormons,  learns  to  love  a  young  New 
Englander.  The  Mormon  religion,  however,  demands  that  the  girl  shall  become 
<he  second  wife  of  one  of  the  Mormons— Well,  that's  the  problem  of  this  great  dory, 

THE  SHORT  STOP 

The  young  hero,  tiring  of  his  factory  grind,  starts  out  to  win  fame  and  fortune  as 
*  professional  ball  player.  His  hard  knocks  at  the  start  are  followed  by  such  success 
as  clean  sportsmanship,  courage  and  honesty  ought  to  win. 

BETTY  ZANE 

This  story  tells  of  the  bravery  and  heroism  of  Betty,  the  beautiful  young  sister  oi 
old  Colonel  Zane,  one  of  the  bravest  pioneers. 

THE  LONE  STAR  RANGER 

After  killing  a  man  in  self  defense,  Buck  Duane  becomes  an  outlaw  along  the 
Texas  border.  In  a  camp  on  the  Mexican  side  of  the  river,  he  finds  a  young  girl  held 
prisoner,  and  in  attempting  to  rescue  her,  brings  down  upon  himself  the  wrath  of  her 
captors  and  henceforth  is  hunted  on  one  side  by  honest  men,  on  the  other  by  outlaws. 

THE  BORDER  LEGION 

Joan  Randle,  in  a  spirit  of  anger,  sent  Jim  Cleve  out  to  a  lav/less  Western  mining 
camp,  to  prove  his  mettle.  Then  realizing  that  she  loved  him — she  followed  him  o~ut 
On  ner  way,  she  is  captured  by  a  bandit  band,  and  trouble  begins  when  she  shoots 
Kells,  the  leader— and  nurses  him  to  health  again.  Here  enters  another  romance- 
when  Joan,  disguised  as  an  outlaw,  observes  Jim,  in  the  throes  of  dissipation.  A  gold 
strike,  a  thrilling  robbery— gambling  and  gun  play  carry  you  along  breathlessly. 

THE   LAST  OF  THE  GREAT  SCOUTS. 

By  Helen  Cody  Wetmore  and  Zane  Grey 

The  life  story  of  Colonel  William  F.  Cody,  "  Buffalo  Bill,"  as  told  by  his  sister  and 
Zane  Grey.  It  begins  with  his  boyhood  in  Iowa  and  his  first  encounter  with  an  In 
dian.  We  see  "  Bill "  as  a  pony  express  rider,  then  near  Fort  Sumter  as  Chief  of 
the  Scouts,  and  later  engaged  in  the  most  dangerous  Indian  campaigns.  There  is 
also  a  very  interesting  account  of  the  travels  of  "  The  Wild  West"  Show.  No  char 
acter  In  public  life  makes  a  stronger  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  America  than 
**  Buffalo  Bill,"  whose  daring  and  bravery  made  him  famous. _ 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW 


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